


Just to Remind

by Persephone



Series: Willing to Take the Risk [2]
Category: Valentine's Day (2010)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bradley Cooper - Freeform, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Domestic, Eric Dane - Freeform, Explicit Sexual Content, Los Angeles, M/M, Rare Characters, Rare Fandoms, Rare Pairing, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-09
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 03:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A committed man will do anything. Or is that a desperate man?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The warm breezes of the Caribbean paradise wafted through the open air bar. It ruffled his hair and cooled his flushed skin, making it feel even clammier and more unpleasant, when all around him he could hear tinkling music and soft laughter.

He ran a hand through his hair, gripping and pulling tufts of it. The bar was swimming and swaying every time he closed and opened his eyes.

He was fucking wasted.

“How am I supposed to— how am I supposed to do this? Just thinking about the word makes me want to—” he waved a hand, “run and scream in panic. I mean, I know I’m reliable when it comes to relationships, I _like_ taking care of people—”

He paused and checked through his foggy mind to confirm that it was true. He continued.

“But on my own terms, you know? Not on some— weird societal standard. It’s asking all the wrong things of me. Doing it someone else’s way, I mean. But I— went and did it. I committed myself to the most wonderful person in the world, the most deserving. He’s so patient, so kind… _so_ hot—”

“He?”

“Yes, _he._ Get over it. And I did it because if—if I turned him down I would never have forgiven myself. And would never have gotten over him. I want to get it right, you know?” He lowered his head. “But I know I’ll get it wrong. I’m so in love with him, Benoit, you have no idea. Soo addicted...”

He looked up at Benoit, the bartender, who was pouring drinks and nodding contemplatively.

He sank lower into his woe, realizing that even Benoit, a man he had just met, understood that he was screwed.

“I tried breaking up with him. Did I tell you that? It-it didn’t take. For weeks I thought I’d done it, but I wasn’t even close. And now—now I’m in trouble because I know deep in my soul that I can’t make it work.”

He looked up blearily at Benoit. “What should I do?”

Benoit raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. “Well,” he said in his French-accented Caribbean accent, “you can start by going home. Wherever this person is, he’s not expecting you to come home lagered up and upset.”

He looked down at himself. His vest was hanging open and his tie was pulled lose. He looked around and found his jacket lying on the floor beneath his stool and slowly leaned over and picked it up. Then he realized he had spilled some of the Martini Rosso on his shirt and it made it look like he was bleeding from a chest wound.

He was a fucking mess.

“Sober up and go home. Talk to him.”

He shook his head slowly, sliding the jacket onto the bar. “It’s no use. Listen, don’t ever sit across from someone you’re carrying a torch for and try and break up with them. Trust me when I tell you—it won’t end the way you’re expecting.”

“All right then,” Benoit said airily. He leaned on the bar and cocked his head toward their left.

He turned and looked.

In the middle of the thatch-roofed bar a group of preppy East Coast college boys were raising their glasses in toasts. After a moment he gathered that they were toasting to their own awesomeness.

“Hang around and see what the cat drags in,” Benoit said suggestively.

He faced forward and dropped his head on the counter.

“You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said! I’m committed! And that’s the problem!”

~*~

The chartered flight from St. Bart’s brought him in early for his flight out of Charlotte, North Carolina. In a couple of hours he was scheduled to take a commercial flight back to L.A.

He gave the bar a wide berth. Even from this distance he could smell the vermouth and it made him want to gag.

Instead he found a spot under the flatscreen TVs blaring sports results on ESPN. He sat down and pulled a bottled water from his overnight case and took a few cooling sips. Then he checked his phone messages and reached for a newspaper before settling in. The handful of Advil he had popped had finally started to kick in.

Never again. Never again would he get that wasted. He’d rather do hits of pot if he wanted to get out of his head that badly. At least there was no hangover there.

After about a minute he realized that the TV was somehow holding his attention. He kept staring at it until the vapid sportscasters were replaced by a harried looking man wearing an NFL logo jacket, coming out of a press conference.

He realized he was looking at a news report that had something do to with the player who had come out of the closet in the NFL.

He lowered his paper and watched.

“Sean Jackson’s contract negotiation status is not an issue for the league to discuss,” the harried man was saying. “That’s an issue for team management of whatever team wants to have him.”

The man hurried away and the reporter brought the mic back to her face.

“That was NFL spokesman Rob Fuentes. With the draft picks only a few days away,” she intoned, “quarterback Sean Jackson, who made history by coming out as the first _gay_ player in the NFL, is still a free agent. This, after being dropped by the San Diego Chargers after a stalled chance at the Super Bowl. Since coming out, Jackson’s name has become synonymous with celebrity. So the only thing remaining is to see whether he can translate that into a brand new contract. Back to you, Dan, Chad.”

It had been six weeks and Sean’s coming out was still headlining sports news. _Predictability must be so nice._

The footage cut back to the studio where two self-satisfied sports commentators in over-stylized suits were smirking at the camera. The first one turned to the second.

“Sean Jackson is gay? I didn’t know that.”

The other one laughed. Despicably. “Neither—neither did I.”

“That’s...amazing,” the first one, Dan, said, making a show of picking his words. As if whomever their audience was would get the things they weren’t saying.

They reveled in their tiny fun for a few more moments, then they moved on to the next report.

He sat there staring coldly at the TV. The league professionals were refraining from making juvenile comments, at least while in public, but the jocks felt a tribal need to do so. Why was he not fainting from surprise? _Dickheads._

He hoped Sean hadn’t seen the report and was coping well in L.A.

Then it all came back to him. His commitment, his new “status” in their relationship. He slipped down in his seat, groaning in misery and covering his face with the newspaper.

What the hell was he going to do about Sean?

~*~

Sean Jackson was smiling to himself. He was feeling pretty damn good about his life.

He was at his dining table, bathed in exhilarating Pacific sunlight, and holding a set of letters in both hands.

In one hand were letters from not one, not two, not even three, but _four_ NFL teams making him contract offers.

In the other, as of this morning, was a letter from the San Diego Chargers, his former team who had dropped him, asking him to come back and play for them as their quarterback.

He shook his head at the wonder of it all.

The Chargers wanted him back. After all the noise Coach Turner had made, after the resounding way in which the general manager had turned Paula down at her attempts for keeping him.

He hadn’t had letters of offer since he was initially drafted into the NFL out of college and the letters made him feel just as giddy.

He put them down and pulled another file folder towards him.

Aside from the league communications, he was also looking at piles of letters from organizations wanting him to be their spokesperson, to come talk to their group, to film commercials on their behalf. And in a third folder were a few book deal offers.

He sat back in the chair and simply laughed at the ceiling. It was, as Holden would say, so unbelievable he could hardly believe it.

The stuff was coming in so hard and fast he could hardly keep up. And neither could Paula, though she was pretending not to be impressed. He had gotten off the phone with her a few minutes ago and her voice had gone so high pitched with indignation that it was a miracle she hadn’t crashed her car.

She was, she’d said, thrilled, of course, that the league had finally woken up and had started treating him like the record-holding quarterback he was, and “fuck all that gay nonsense.”

By that he presumed she meant his coming out shouldn’t have been the media focus, to which he couldn’t agree more. But when he asked her what they were going to do about the Chargers she told him she didn’t talk business on the phone.

He set all the paperwork aside and checked the time and stood up.

The NFL draft picks were live that morning and Paula’s agency was hosting a viewing. And this time, unlike the last party she’d hosted, he was actually going to have a good time.

He stacked the folders to one side and picked up his cars keys and exited the house.

Slipping on his sunglasses, he quickly checked the end of their private street before walking down his driveway to his car.

Oddly enough this time there were only two news vans parked at the entrance of the street, the side that was public.

He had to wonder whether there was just more going on around town on a Friday morning and hence the small number. Or maybe his so-called celebrity was finally becoming old news.

He pulled to a stop at the end of the private road and checked to see that the black SUV with the bodyguards was still parked in the street.

Sure enough, it was. The two guys in dark glasses in the front seats stared in his direction.

He cleared the stop sign and rolled into traffic and checked the rearview to see whether they would follow him like always. They did.

He raised an eyebrow and shook his head. He had to remember to tell Paula to call them off. Even the news media were getting tired of the story, and aside from hate mail no one had physically tried to harm him. He was all good and ready for the next great thing.

~*~

“Hi, Sean!”

“Hey, Denise.”

“G’morning, Sean!”

“Hey, how’s it going, Andrea.”

“Gooood morning, Sean Jackson.”

“Hey, hey, Jess. What’s happenin’?”

“All good things.”

He nodded. “That’s what I like to hear.”

He kept walking toward Paula’s office.

For some reason, or at some point, the secretaries at the agency had decided to start treating him like the client they loved the most.

Two months ago most of them barely made eye contact and usually it was only Paula’s secretary that would say hello. But ever since his coming out it was like a party in here when he walked in. His assumption was that they somehow empathized with him now, though he could only guess why.

Down the hallway Paula stepped out of her office and waved him down, adjusting her purse strap. He joined her beeline for the elevator at the other end of the hallway.

At the elevator, he stood smiling next to her as they waited. She had her head tilted up, looking at the lit-up floor numbers, and was making a show of not looking at him.

He finally burst into laughter. “Paula, they want me back!”

“Fuck ‘em.”

The elevator arrived and they stepped inside.

“Aw, come on. What are we going to say to them?”

“I...said...fuck...them.”

He chuckled, shaking his head.

Paula hauled her purse higher on her shoulder. “Stop laughing and push P already. We’re going to be late and Kara will think you quit the league and ran off with some personal trainer or something. Watch, she’s gonna be calling me any moment now asking how on earth she’s ever going to spin _that._ ”

He grinned, reached forward and pushed the button. The elevator started moving.

“Who is he, anyway?” she asked suddenly, turning to him, her brown eyes sizing him up and down.

He didn’t bother playing coy when it came to Paula.

He shrugged. “Just a guy, I guess.”

“Not _just_ a guy, obviously. Was he worth all this drama? A damn _press_ conference?”

He feinted a haughty looked down his nose at her.

“He got me back my job, didn’t he? In a manner of speaking.”

She pursed her lips and turned away. “Whatever.”

He couldn’t stop laughing.

~*~

Reaching the bottom of the escalators, Holden handed his coat and briefcase to Redmond and returned Redmond’s greeting absently.

He was looking for a file on his phone.

And then suddenly Redmond was holding open the door to the Town Car and he couldn’t even remember getting outside. He got in and held his forehead. His mind was refusing to function.

He was missing a PDF that he had received mere seconds before getting on the flight in North Carolina and being told to turn off his phone.

Going back a screen on his phone’s email account, he still couldn’t find where the hell he had put it. It wasn’t in his email and it wasn’t showing up in the list of documents he had downloaded.

He was neither a careless nor a forgetful person, yet he couldn’t make his mind give up the file’s location. Despite trying not to, his thoughts kept going back to Sean.

He suddenly sat up, having a horrible thought. He wasn’t going to be expected to give up his condo and _move,_ was he? His mind tripped all over itself for a minute before he was able to calm down.

Of course he wasn’t going to have to move.

Sean hadn’t said anything about it and Sean wouldn’t expect him to move all the way up to Malibu anyway, when he worked and conducted most of his life in and around Century City.

He sat back, wondering why was he being so insane.

He brought up the phone and violently tapped the scroll button...and finally found the PDF. It was sitting in an email link he had placed on his home screen. A perfectly normal routine. He’d just been so flustered that he had done all the wrong things to find it. He double-clicked the icon.

A huge “COMMITMENT,” in black letters, exploded across his screen.

He stuttered as his heart skipped a beat.

Then, after moments of confusion, he saw that the word was part of the subject line in the email, which read “Bertrand Estate wants commitment,” all in caps.

Weakly he scrolled through the rest of the email. A slight emergency had cropped up while he was in the air and his firm was going to have to hustle to deal with it.

He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling so stupid he could hardly believe it, and waiting for the rush of blood to his head to stop making him feel dizzy.

He pushed the intercom and told Redmond he would have to wait for him after they arrived at his place to take him on to Century City. Redmond acknowledged and he sat back and closed his eyes in embarrassment. _Idiot._

~*~

The firm his grandfather and father had built forty-five years ago had a lean senior staff which was headed by him.

His father, who had retired five years ago and now spent most of his time golfing at the Bel Air Country Club, with his current wife, had instituted in place a board of directors to whom he accounted. And that comprised their entire hierarchy.

They weren’t a large company and generally stayed within a small and exclusive pool of acquisitions. Most of their clientele came from relationships his father and grandfather had fostered over the years, along which lines he continued to run the firm. In an industry where buyouts by private equity firms were becoming the norm, it had become his primary responsibility to keep theirs a firm that still felt personal no matter the level of transaction.

So on receiving what amounted to a plea from the seller of the estate in St. Bart’s to receive a commitment from them over Sotheby’s International, they were going to drop everything and get it resolved within the hour.

As he walked the hallway toward the conference room, he thought the meeting would be a welcome distraction. Because he was now finding himself staring down at his phone at a missed called from Sean, and getting a weird feeling in his stomach.

Heart bumping away in his chest, he slowly moved aside to stand behind some sofas in the reception area and faced the glass walls overlooking the traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard. He tapped the voicemail icon and brought the phone to his ear. Sean’s deep voice filled his ear.

“Hi, sweetheart, it’s me.”

Had Sean always called him sweetheart?

“I hadn’t heard from you in a while and—” In a while? It had been four days! “And...I just wanted to say hi and...” Sean sounded a little strange, like he was embarrassed and having to laugh it off, whatever it was. In a minute he found out why. “I just wanted to tell you that...I miss you and that...I can’t stop thinking about you and... When are you getting back? Anyway," Sean said in a low voice, "I can’t wait to see you.” When he thought the message had ended, he heard soft rustling. It sounded like Sean was getting out of bed. “Call me, sweetie.” Then a pause. Then, “I love you, sweetheart. Bye.”

The message’s loud beep, to signify its end, startled him out of his state of mild shock.

He brought the phone down and started wordlessly at it.

Had Sean always left him such dopey messages?

He looked around in a daze. The reception area had cleared out. He needed to get to the conference room.

He slipped the phone inside his jacket and resumed his walk, assuring himself that the meeting was just the distraction he needed.

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

He had no such luck.

As if in a universal conspiracy, the meeting seemed to have no additional words beyond “Bertrand Estates”—the family that wished to sell their property with confidence in its disposition—“commitment,” and “trusted relationship.”

At least, that was all he heard. Again and again. The seller wanted a commitment because Sotheby’s was offering them terms that were near perfect, but Alastair Wilson, his father, had not cobbled himself with investment partners, who could be unpredictable, and because their relationship went back a decade, they were giving Wilson Realty a kind of right of first refusal. But, the emailed letter continued, the Bertrands wanted “a convincing show of commitment” as to what extent Wilson Realty was ready to show their loyalty and trustworthiness in putting the property on the market.

He didn’t quite break into a sweat—the letter wasn’t talking about him and Sean, for god’s sake—but he had to sit there and wait for his head to stop making the connections.

Their legal department had drawn up some very good terms based on the firm’s model of doing business, so all he had to do was initial along the margins and make the call to Harry Bertrand.

But checking off the terms became like standing in front of a firing squad. Every word was going to release a bullet into his stomach and make him bleed all over the carpet.

And lest he forget, there was always the reality of what would happen if one side didn’t perform according to the terms of the commitment, a scenario which was covered on the last pages of the contract. Done so in the last sections of any agreement, of course, because no one wanted to talk about the bad things until it exploded in everyone’s face. And even then the actual words for breaking off the agreement would try and paint a pretty picture where everyone knew it was always a horrifying mess.

He stared wild-eyed at the documents, feeling totally helpless. Why was anyone even expected to live up to all these expectations? Why _were_ there so many expectations for simply being in love? How was any of it fair? He slowly picked up the pen and began initialing provisions. This was not his life being neatly ticked off in sections in the margins. He just had to keep that in mind.

It was how, with his heart thudding in his chest, he was able to make it through the meeting.

~*~

So he was probably going to have to sell all his furniture, move out of his condo and change his entire life.

He just needed to accept that.

Sitting on Sean’s couch, he’d stopped by his place to grab an overnight bag and change out of his work clothes, but at the moment he felt neither casual nor comfortable.

Of all the compromises he was certain he was going to have to make, he promised himself he wasn’t going to learn what aromatherapy was or what exactly those candles were supposed to do.

He promised himself that. It would be his right to have one thing.

“All right, so I think I got it now.”

He didn’t look up from his platter of sushi.

Sean was sitting on the sofa across from him, looking over letters piled in open file folders.

Pinpoints of yellow lights from the beach mingled with the soft sparse lighting around the room, and the whole effect made Sean look amazing.

Or maybe Sean did just look more striking than he remembered even from just a week ago. His hair was shiny and his skin looked flawless and his clothes seemed to fit him better than he remembered.

After some thought, he realized it was happiness.

Sean seemed to be getting more amazing looking based on his level of internal happiness. Wonderful. And he on the other hand probably looked like the ogre he felt.

“LAMBDA overall handle spreading information about gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender issues,” Sean was saying. “They have chapters all the way down to colleges and high schools, and they also have national programs to support this goal. GLAAD, however, just cover all the defamation stuff. But what I don’t understand is what are all their connections with the ACLU, which I think is the major one?”

“LAMBDA is national and the only one affiliated with the ACLU. It’s for the legal stuff. Call LAMBDA’s offices in D.C. and they’ll give you all the leads you need. At least join them, if you already haven’t. There’re also a couple of local and state groups like Equality California that you’ll probably want to start donating to on a regular basis. Also subscribe to a couple of website newsletters to stay on top of things. I’ve actually got an email compiling most of this info that I can send you if you want.”

He was staring at his teriyaki-stained fingers. He looked at the little packets of soy sauce scattered inside the plastic takeout bag and wondered for the hundredth time why they didn’t make soy sauce in squeezable packets. He had no idea how he was supposed to open them without consistently making a mess.

Seconds ticked by, and he realized the room had fallen silent. He looked up and found Sean watching him. Their eyes met and Sean dropped his head to his paperwork.

He raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“Nothing.”

But Sean was fighting a smile, and was making a show of sifting through his paperwork.

“It’s not nothing,” he replied. “Did I say something funny?”

Sean didn’t respond and after a while he gave up and tried to go back to his food. And found he wasn’t hungry anymore.

He pushed the platter away and reached for a napkin, starting when Sean’s body was suddenly eclipsing his view.

He sat back in surprise as Sean slowly lowered himself to the recliner, his hands on the armrests, his body inserting itself between his legs.

“What are you doing?” he cried, lifting his stained hands away from Sean’s jersey. “I’ve got teriyaki sauce all over my hands.”

“That’s not a problem,” Sean said softly, smiling, and staring down at him as if they’d just met. Sean propped himself with one hand on the seat of the recliner, using his knee to push his legs apart. His other hand started trailing down his chest and he let out a shaky breath.

“Sean,” he said unsteadily.

Sean slipped his arm around his body and pulled him down so he slid lower in the recliner.

“Sean,” he quickly repeated, because once Sean started kissing him it would be over.

Sean stared heatedly down at him, his mouth open and emitting soft breaths. “Are you the hottest boyfriend in the world, or what?

He rolled his eyes, trying not to be flattered. It wasn’t as if he’d never heard anything like it before. What he wanted was to ask Sean to just come out and say what was expected of him now that they were in this new phase of their relationship. Sean might as well just give him his list and save them both a lot of headache.

There was probably a right way to put it, but as always, the words were flying out of him before he could stop them.

Sean’s face tightened in a frown. “A _list?_ ” Then he laughed softly. “Holden, will you relax? We’ll figure it out when we get there.” Then he lowered his head again and whispered softly in his ear, “Now come on and gimme some sugar.”

“Ugh. Give you some sugar?”

Sean was laughing under his breath. Well, he was glad someone was having fun.

He held up his hands. “What do I do about the teriyaki sauce?”

Sean pulled back, tilted his head a little to indicate behind him, and raised a suggestive eyebrow.

It took a moment to sink it. “Eww,” he gasped, laughing now. “What is wrong with you?”

Sean, holding in his laughter as he helped him out of the recliner, at least had the decency to blush.

~*~

He woke up the following morning with Sean’s house looking like an alien lair to him.

He’d spent three years coming and going from this place at all hours and now he felt as though Sean had moved everything slightly out of place.

Sean hadn’t, of course. But as he emerged from Sean’s bedroom that morning, even with Sean standing in the kitchen cutting up his vegetables for the day like he did almost every morning, everything looked unfamiliar to him.

He entered the kitchen slowly and stood staring at the counter next to the fridge in consternation. Seconds passed, then he heard, “You all right?”

He turned and saw Sean looking over his shoulder at him with concern.

“I-I’m fine,” he said, defensively. “Why?”

Sean stared at him for a moment then gave a slight shrug. “Nothing, I guess.” He went back to cutting up vegetables.

Trying to shake himself out of his feelings, he reached in the counter overhead for a cereal bowl.

“If you’re looking for my niece’s smiley face bowl it’s inside the dishwasher.”

He stopped, lowered his arm and turned back to Sean. “I don’t always use that bowl for breakfast. There are other bowls I can use.”

Sean didn’t respond, didn’t even move, then he let out a breath and finished cutting up the celery. Sean scrapped the cut pieces into a glass storage bowl, paused, placed the lid on it. He stacked the bowl on top of a similar one containing carrots, then paused, reached along the counter, and finally pulled forward a broccoli tree.

“Sean,” he said.

Sean turned and looked at him.

“What?” he asked Sean, feeling that that was all he had been saying since he got here. But it was obvious that something was bothering Sean.

“I don’t know,” Sean said, hedging. “You used to get up in the morning and— I don’t know, you’d do a...thing.”

“I used to do a thing? There’s a thing I’m supposed to be doing?”

“You’re not _supposed_ to do it, you just did it. And I liked it. That’s all.” Sean shrugged. “Not a big deal.”

When he didn’t say anything, Sean took in a slow, deep breath. “I’m just saying I missed you while you were gone. We’d just done this thing, then you were suddenly gone for a week. I guess I didn’t realize how much I wanted to be with you right after.”

He blinked at Sean, then stuck his thumb over his shoulder, pointing toward the bedroom. “We just had sex twice last night and once this morning.” He watched as Sean laughed embarrassedly. “There’s more I’m supposed to be doing?”

Sean frowned, looking bemused, but still not looking at him. “I’m not sure why you keep saying that.”

“Well, you know,” he said a bit too crisply. “It would be easier if I knew exactly what I _was_ supposed to be doing, not to mention _saying,_ so we wouldn’t keep having to go around in circles.”

~*~

There was something familiar about Holden’s tone.

He stopped cutting the broccoli and turned around so he wouldn’t have to be looking at Holden over his shoulder.

Holden was dressed in an old T-shirt that clung comfortably in all the right places, over soft cotton pajama bottoms. His tousled brown hair dumped wildly over his pale forehead and partly obscured his deep blue eyes. He looked completely fuckable.

That was the first thought he had. The second thought was that Holden also looked like he was ready to bolt.

He kept his expression neutral. He should have been ready for this.

He didn’t have psychic abilities but he hardly made the same mistakes twice. Not on the field and not in his personal life.

Holden, who usually shuffled of the bedroom first thing in the morning with nothing on his mind but the thought of warming himself against his bare back, suddenly being sharp and critical? Not even.

Between the list comment from last night and the crazy baiting behavior this morning, he was very clear on what was happening with Holden. It was easy to see that Holden was beginning to chafe, and it could only be over one thing—a decision he had made that had been a difficulty for him. And now Holden was terrified and acting out.

Before, it would have just confused the hell out of him. But after what he had been through over the past three years, he knew now that it really didn’t have anything to do with him and he didn’t have to play into it. He merely had to weather the storm.

He smiled at Holden.

Holden’s expression went from defensive to a slow and suspicious frown.

“I’m truly sorry, Holden,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make it sound as if I was expecting something more.”

Holden looked thrown off.

He held his smile a moment longer, then turned around and went back to his broccoli. After a few more chops he decided it was probably best to get out of the danger zone altogether.

He put the rest of the veggies away and dropped the knife into the sink.

Wiping his hand on a dishcloth, he walked over to Holden and dropped a kiss on his forehead. Holden smelled like his vanilla scented candles. He kissed him again, slower this time, breathing in a little more.

Since beginning this new phase of their relationship he had developed a kind of hunger for Holden that he couldn’t have seen coming, given the way he already felt about him. He couldn’t seem to stop saying sentimental things to him even knowing it sounded cloying. As it was, he was fighting the urge to draw him in and just let lose.

Holden’s stormy expression, however, was enough to hold him in check.

He pulled back, scratching his temple to cover his smile, and said, “I gotta head into town for some groceries, be back in a few.”

And with that he got the hell out of there.

~*~

The sun was already screaming down in the mid-afternoon. He had decided to get some fresh air on Sean’s balcony but it was looking to be too hot. Just then remembering that he hadn’t put on any sunblock, he pushed off the railing to go back inside and heard someone call to him.

He turned to see three woman dressed in workout gear, two doing crunches on mats on the sand and one standing over them. The one standing raised her arm and waved at him.

He waved back, not sure how she could be mistaking him for Sean.

“You must be Sean’s boyfriend!”

There was a pause as he determined how he was supposed to answer that.

He squinted one eye. “Yeah...?”

“Oh my God!” the other two screamed, sitting up and turning to him. Then all three of them proceeded to wave wildly at him, and started scrambling to their feet.

They reached him all together, bounding over the sand with flailing ponytails and big smiles.

“Hi!” the first one said as they reached him. “I’m Gia! This is Tori and this is Daphne! It’s so nice to meet you!”

Was it? he thought to himself, squinting into the blazing sun and trying to look at them. He wondered why.

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” he replied. Then they just stood there staring expectantly at him. He suddenly shook his head, realizing he hadn’t introduced himself. “Holden,” he said, curving his mouth into a smile and nodding.

“Awww!” they trilled in harmony. “Holden! So sweet! We love Sean!”

 _Eeeee._ His ears were starting to ring. Would he ever get used to Malibu people. “That’s...great,” he said.

“We’ve never seen a guy over here before. That’s why we were so shocked when he came out of the closet! We wish he’d said something sooner, we had _sooo_ many guys we could have introduced him to!”

He raised both eyebrows. So it was _his_ privilege to be with Sean?

“Oh, no,” Gia countered immediately, at his surprise. “I didn’t mean it to come out like that! I meant— Oh, well,” she said, interrupting herself with a waving hand. “You know what I meant!”

He pressed his lips, nodding.

“Hey, listen, why don’t you guys come over for dinner one of these nights? We’re right next door! Sean kept turning me down but now I know it’s because he didn’t want me to get the wrong impression! Such a sweet guy!”

_Oh, the best._

“But now that you guys are a couple, you have to come over! It’s all vegan,” she added in a sing-song voice.

“Sounds great,” he said, mentally throwing himself off a cliff. “I’ll have to let him know.”

“Awesome!”

“Yay!” the other two cried.

Then all three of them chirped harmonious goodbyes and were gone, leaving him staring after them in slight trauma. He remained leaning against the railing, nervously rubbing his forehead, bringing his hand down to look at his fingers. He was sure there would have been peeled-off skin by now, but there wasn’t. Still, he felt somehow scorched.

Sean returned some time later, and without putting away his groceries, or really even saying a word to him, took him by the arm and dragged him into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them. He followed wordlessly, and baffled.

But not for long. Sean proceeded to do some rather unspeakable things to him.

He managed to recall, standing there staring, his fingers digging into Sean’s shoulders and blinking down at him like a broken light, that Sean had said something about disappointing people who had been writing him hate mail and accusing him of having deviant sex.

He supposed this was Sean making up for it?

He didn’t know. But he did know, as his fingers slipped into Sean’s hair and his toes started to curl, that he would be in no condition to ask for some time afterward.

~*~

He woke up with the sun in his eyes.

He had never understood how having glass walls in your bedroom was a good idea, and now it was even more annoying because he was _committed_ to it.

He threw an arm over his eyes and sat up, or tried to. But Sean’s arm was stretched across his stomach and felt like a steel beam. He pushed and had Sean turning over in the other direction, and swung his legs from the bed.

He didn’t know what time it was but it was apparently early. He pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of cargos from the closet and grabbed his overnight bag from a chair.

At the back doors leading to the patio he found his shoes and slipped them on, then very quietly pushed open the sliding doors.

He slid the door in place behind him, listening for the click to make certain it was locked, then quietly took the stone stairs down to the beach.

Early morning surfers and sunbathers dotted the beach as he made his way along sand, walking parallel to the private street on the other side of the houses. He reached a walkway between the houses, slipped through it and came out onto the public street.

Behind him was the entrance to the private street that led to into Sean’s cul-de-sac, with his Lexus was parked down the road where he had left it.

Towards the entrance of Sean’s street, he saw that the black Chevy Blazer with the bodyguards was parked by the curb, as well as a dark blue Audi Quattro. In the back seat of the Audi he could see two men with video equipment. The men didn’t give him so much as a glance as he beeped to unlock his car and get in.

He didn’t know who paid these paparazzi, but he certainly wouldn’t have cut them a check for failing to notice the one male coming from the direction of Sean Jackson’s house at six o’clock in the morning.

~*~

Holden was gone when he woke up. But there was a text from Paula telling him to meet her at her office that afternoon and that Kara would be on the phone, so he jumped out of bed and got ready to start his day.

Across the league, contract negotiations were underway. Draft picks at the start of the month had gone the way they usually went, carrying a lot of hype and very little surprise.

Now that new players all had teams, however, it was time for team owners to decide how to reshuffle the deck of “free agent” players. This was the time to pick up new player contracts, effect trades, and generally see who might be brought on board to shore up team weaknesses. Weakness that had been uncovered by the failings of the previous season.

ESPN Radio, which he had on as he drove into Beverly Hills that afternoon, recounted all the updates. Kara had sent him an email that morning containing the press release she had put out, and Mike and Mike on the radio were jovially announcing that Sean Jackson was fielding offers from “several teams.”

They officially redacted their craigslist snark from February, which made him laugh as he listened to their relentless humor.

Funny what a couple of months of good luck could do to his mood.

It was an overcast day, and for some reason the grey colors made him think of Holden. Not usually his corresponding thoughts. He hoped his poor, overwhelmed guy was doing better this morning.

He reached Cañon Street and turned left into the parking garage of Paula’s building.

~*~

The Chargers wanted him back, Paula revealed. But they wanted him at a low end of his salary requirements.

What it essentially boiled down to was that he would be making less than he had been the year before and they would remove a certain amount of perks from his package.

It was shocking, feeling more like a punishment than anything made in good faith. He couldn’t think of a single reason for him to be facing a demotion when, no matter what the media had said, he had been among the few players on the team who _hadn’t_ fucked up.

He stared forlornly at Paula, who was stone-faced behind her desk.

Despite the whole sorry mess of it, however, he was leaning toward caving in. Because, he told Paula when she sat forward at his words, he felt they ought to take advantage of his current situation before he ran out of public goodwill, as it were.

“I dropped a bomb on the fans as well as the league, and everyone’s just trying to get back on their feet right now.”

“That,” Paula told him, “is going to happen over my dead body.”

He waited.

“They don’t have a single reason to do this to you. Not one. And I’m not taking a hit in my pay just because some jackass can’t deal with your junk rubbing up against some other guy’s junk.”

He raised his eyebrows. He supposed it was as good a way to put it as any.

“I’m with Paula on that one,” Kara said lightly over the phone.

Kara sounded strangely relaxed these days, not her usual tense self at all. “Not the part about the—” Kara went on, “but the— Well, you know what part I mean.”

Paula raised a hand. “Sean, this is not the best we can do. The other teams asking for you, yeah, they’re lower ranked, but they make my point for me. So you just take it easy and let me do my job.”

Both women fell silent as they waited for him to say something. 

He sighed. He knew the actual decision wasn’t his—he paid them to take that burden off his shoulders—but he appreciated the second they gave him to just accept that they were going to handle it.

“Sure,” he said, nodding. “We’ll wait.”

“Excellent,” Paula said, then put her finger on the phone’s conference call button. “Thanks, Kara.”

“Any time.”

Paula ended the call and sat back, smiling her “harmless” smile. It let him know she wasn’t yet done.

“Are we good?” she asked amiably.

“We’re good,” he replied. He stood up and used his foot to slide the chair back toward the desk. “Thanks, Paula.”

“Going to the party tonight?”

There it was. Sly as ever.

He sighed, not wanting to think about it. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not really. Mark Hawthorne’ll be there, so you’re going.”

“Guess I’m going then.”

“Atta boy.”

He left her office, feeling anything but encouraged.

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

The NFL players’ association acted as a union for players across the league. It mainly tried to push NFL codes of conduct on the players when it wasn’t representing them during league-wide talks with the team owners.

There was a certain prestige associated with being the team’s Players Rep, even though the position was more political than anything and the voting process would put most high school popularity contests to shame. And though he tried to stay away from anything smelling like politics most of the time, the Rep handled some real issues, including being the voice of the players who didn’t make the multimillion dollar packages, which was a majority of the league. And so dealing with the rep was the fate of every player at one point or another.

This was how he found himself parked on the curb outside the Mondrian Hotel on the Sunset Strip, a few hours after his meeting with Paula.

He sat behind the wheel and stared up at the white-lit hotel, its thirty-foot decorative mahogany doors situated on the pavement, and its driveway crawling with valet dressed in white Adidas tracksuits—he was pretty sure those were Adidas—and welcoming over-glamorized L.A. people.

The association party was being thrown on the rooftop bar whose name he couldn’t remember. But he remembered that he had been there once, a long time ago, and had liked it. And, he reminded himself, Mark Hawthorne, the Chargers Rep, was a good guy.

He sat back and looked around. Even on a Wednesday the boulevard was littered with limos and expensive cars disgorging people onto the curbs who would then totter their way into the restaurants, clubs and hotels along the Strip.

He adjusted the rearview, checking his black leather jacket and white T-shirt once more, then looking down at his dark jeans and…realizing he was just nervous.

He sat tapping his finger against the steering wheel.

It was the first time he was going to be around his colleagues since coming out, and to say his heart was beating harder than normal would be to make a very big understatement.

He tried to think of something sharp that Holden would say to help the moment along and came up short. And at that moment he realized why people carried pictures of their wife and kids in their wallets.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone. He tapped Holden’s number.

The phone rang for much longer than he would have expected, and he thought it was going to go to voicemail when Holden picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, sweetheart, it’s me.”

There was a moment’s pause. Then: “Hi, Sean, what’s up?”

He pulled back, frowning. Holden sounded like it was just a friend calling. Not unpleasantly, but a bit unexpectedly.

“Hey,” he said, ignoring the tone. “Remember I told you about that dinner the league players association was having sometime this month?”

“Vaguely...”

“Well, I’m here and uh...” He leaned forward and looked through the windshield at the lit-up hotel again, laughing briefly. “I guess I’m a little nervous.”

“Why?”

“Well...”

“Because you came out and you’re about to go be with a bunch of overcompensating straight guys?”

“Well…yeah…”

“Go, who cares. And get used to it probably for the rest of your life.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Uh…thanks. I guess.”

Holden fell silent. He heard him swearing softly to himself.

For a long time Holden didn’t say anything.

Then he said, “Sean, I’m sorry. That was callous of me.”

“You could say that.”

“I-I didn’t mean it to come out that way. I meant—”

Silence again.

“I don’t know what I meant,” Holden finally said quietly, sadly. “But I didn’t mean that.”

His heart squeezed. “Holden, how’re you doing? You left pretty early this morning—”

“I’ve left early before!”

He stopped and closed his eyes. This wasn’t going to happen right now.

“All right, look, I’ll call you later. I gotta go take care of this before I run out of courage.”

“Do you want me to come with you? I’ll go with you.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Okay. Sean, I...” Holden’s words trailed away.

“Yeah, Holden?”

“I love you. You know that, right? I-I mean, I may not say it—enough, but—”

“I know, sweetheart. I love you too. I’ll call you.”

“Okay. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

He tapped the end-call button and put the phone back into his jacket. Then he sat there and let out a breath. It was now or never.

He reached for the gearshift—and was startled by a hard rap at his window. He turned to see a cop standing next to his car. He pushed the button and let down the window.

“Good evening, sir,” the LAPD officer said. “Are you aware you’re parked in a red zone?”

He looked over to his right and realized that the curb in front of the hotel entrance must be a no-parking zone. Great.

“Sorry, officer, I’d just pulled over to make a call before going into the Mondrian. I’ll move right now.”

The cop narrowed his eyes, leaning forward a little. Then he pointed a finger. “Sean Jackson.”

“Yeah.”

“Aw, man. This is awesome. The guys’ll never believe this. Great armwork out there, by the way. You just keep nailing those passes.”

He nodded appreciatively. “Thanks, man.”

The officer waved a hand. Then he said, “Hey, so does this mean we’ll be seeing you at Gay Pride this year? I work the parade every year. You gonna be Grand Marshall?”

He opened his mouth, stunned. “Uhh...”

“Ha ha, just kidding. All right, take it easy, man. Just keep it moving so you don’t cause a backup.”

“Sure thing, officer. And thanks. I really appreciate it.”

And as he rolled his Navigator the few feet forward into the hotel’s driveway, he realized he really did appreciate it.

He got out and exchanged his key for the valet’s ticket, walking into the bright hotel. The light changed and he looked up. Apparently it was set up to be “sunset” in here, while out front it was bright “daytime.” He chuckled, shaking his head as he headed for the elevators. Somehow, the simplicity of that made him happy.

The world didn’t revolve around any one thing, was what the cop’s attitude had brought back to him. Not his sexuality, not his career, and right now not even his contract negotiations. People just wanted to have a good life and be happy. It was all there was to it.

Sometimes it took a little reminding, but he usually got it. And it was what he was keeping in mind as he rode to the rooftop.

~*~

Aside from the usual guys horsing around to no end, throwing girls who weren’t their wives into the pool and so forth, he met up with his good friend Vance Dayus from the team and they had a good, long hug.

This was of course after Vance admonished him not to make a pass at him. He took it in good stride. Vance was a friend.

The canopied lounge area where he’d chosen to make camp was nice. The rooftop reminded him a little of Holden’s playboy bachelor penthouse, what with all the imported embroidered cushions and romantic lighting. He settled in with a group of guys and started shaking hands.

Mark Hawthorne showed up about an hour later. He let Mark get his drink and say his hellos, planning to go over at some point in the evening, and was surprised when Mark came over and sat next to him.

He nodded and made small talk as Mark greeted him, asked how things were going. Then Mark fell silent, and he realized Mark was waiting for him to speak his piece. So he guessed Mark had come ready to talk as well.

He took a deep breath and went for it. He told Mark that he was first and foremost in the NFL to play football. But that knowing how hiding who he was had made him feel, he wanted to take the opportunity to do anything in his power to help any kid who found him or herself in the same position.

“And that might mean giving talks at schools or events organized by certain groups and so on. I just want you to understand that I won’t be doing any of it to try and stir up controversy. I just feel I owe it to myself and to these kids to be there for them.”

Mark nodded, shrugging in a “what can I do?” way.

He pressed on. “So I do understand if there might be some events, like the tailgating with the fans on the One Team Tour, for instance, that the association might want to exclude me from for political reasons, and like I said, I understand.”

“Wait, wait,” Mark quickly said. “My responsibilities as team rep also extend to the fans, sure, but if your negotiations go right, you’re going to be back on the team. And then my responsibilities will also extend to you. We’re not going to leave you out just because it’ll make some people uncomfortable. I don’t think we even have the legal right.”

He nodded, more relieved to hear Mark’s attitude about the whole thing than anything else.

“So how about we agree to cross those bridges when we get to them?” Mark asked.

He nodded one last time, then extended a hand. Mark took it and shook it.

“I hope to see you down at training camp, Sean.”

“Me too, man. And thanks.”

Mark got up and walked away. He slowly sat back and closed his eyes.

It was over. And it had been all right.

A couple other guys took Mark’s seat and he fell into talking with them.

The rest of the night went equally well, the only glitch being when some of the guys, guys who couldn’t call themselves close enough friends to go there, and were now less sober than an hour ago, started in with the gay jokes. He quickly shut it down.

“Guys,” he told the threesome who had gathered under the canopy with his friends. “I don’t want to deal with this. I don’t make jokes about your private lives—half of you would hit me—so don’t make jokes about mine, and not expect to get hit.”

His words were followed by silence, then cackling by some of the guys around him. Half-hearted apologies were floated, and the situation diffused itself. If anyone else harbored feelings bitter towards him, they didn’t let on.

And pretty soon he was looking around at the city lights strung out into the horizon, the fluttering palm trees lining the perimeter of the rooftop, the green walls of ivy and the chaises occupied by skimpily girlfriends, and he appreciated once again that he had a good life.

And suddenly he wanted more than anything to be with Holden.

And that was his cue to leave.

~*~

He waited in the lobby of the Wilshire while the concierge called upstairs to Holden.

The concierge smiled at him, a professional hospitality smile to keep him feeling uncomfortable while he waited. He had only even been allowed into the lobby because his name was on a standing guest list he knew was updated daily.

The concierge spoke smoothly into the phone when Holden picked up, more whispering than announcing that he had a guest downstairs, a Mr. Sean Jackson, and would he like to come and meet him in the lobby or have him escorted upstairs?

There was silence.

He _heard_ the silence from Holden’s end.

Then he heard Holden say some words and the concierge smiled and nodded. “No problem, sir.” He hung up. He walked around his desk and said, “Right this way, please,” and then started for the bank of elevators at the other end of the lobby.

He followed. If he had forgotten why he didn’t like coming here without first alerting Holden, now he remembered.

But even this silliness couldn’t affect his mood. The concierge swiped his keycard and pushed the twenty-seventh floor and stepped out of the elevator while he stepped in, thanking him. The doors closed.

On Holden’s floor, he got out and walked down the hallway, each of the penthouses having its own private elevator. He slowed as the white door at the other end of the circular hallway clicked open and Holden peeked out.

Holden looked completely caught off-guard. He stepped out of the condo and didn’t close the door behind him.

“Sean, what— What are doing here?”

He reached Holden and took his hands, slipping them around his waist and locking them behind him. He kissed him on the cheek, then found he couldn’t let go, and began rubbing himself a little lower against Holden, playing with the fingers locked behind his back.

Holden just stood there staring at him.

“I’m here to see you,” he said, laughing, feeling so full of pleasure he could have started something right there. He looked above Holden’s head into the penthouse, slowly walking him backwards. “Come on, I can’t wait to tell you all about the party. You would have been so proud of me.”

He stopped, as Holden wasn’t moving. Holden threw a look over his shoulder into the condo and looked back at him, apparently wordless.

A sudden, nasty sensation punched his stomach. He looked up into the penthouse but couldn’t see beyond the Empire chairs on either side of the foyer, where the skylight flooded the oak floors with pale moonlight. His eyes shot farther in anyway, roaming the sliver of visible living room beyond, and then flying up the carved wood stairs winding up to the second floor.

His eyes flew back to Holden. “Holden, is there someone back there?”

“ _What?_ ” Holden asked, pulling back.

He had no idea how he had said the words. His throat was blocked by an iron hunk that seemed to have replaced his insides.

Holden twisted out of his grip. Because at this point he _was_ gripping Holden.

“Sean, have you been drinking?”

He couldn’t hear a word of what Holden was saying. Relief at Holden’s clear indignation was pumping through him and he felt weak from it. His knees trembled, like he had used up too much energy without first feeding his body, and he felt like he had to sit down.

Reaching slack fingers for Holden’s hand, he weakly stammered, “I-I’m so sorry.”

He was flushing. Why the hell had he thought such a thing?

It was because of Holden’s behavior over the past few days. He had been carrying tension over it he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge and it had manifested in a fear that Holden had broken up with him and he had been about to find out in his most dreaded way.

“God, Holden, I’m so sorry,” he said, trying to laugh it off though not successfully.

Holden wasn’t amused. “Sean, what are you doing here?” he asked, enunciating.

“I wanted to tell you about the...”

His words just sort of disappeared. To his dismay he found himself observing instead how Holden was dressed.

The sane part of his mind that was yelling that no one was in there, just as Holden had said, was being overcrowded by that dark, bad part of him that was asking, was he sure?

Holden was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants. He didn’t look like he was entertaining anyone, and in fact looked like he had just gotten home from work.

“Is this something I should be expecting more of now?” Holden asked, staring intensely at him. “Is this part of your whole commitment thing? That you’ll show up here whenever you feel like it and start accusing me of cheating? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“It’s nothing to do with that, I promise,” he said quickly, taking Holden’s hand. And this time he made them both move into the foyer, closing the door behind him. Holden’s angry expression hadn’t changed.

“Sweetie,” he began, lifting a hand to stroke the side of Holden’s face. “You gotta admit you’ve been acting kinda weird ever since you got back from your trip.”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault you think I’m cheating. I deserved this.”

He closed his eyes, feeling his heart starting to beat in his chest. How had it gotten to this?

Holden pulled back and moved away. “Sean, just leave. This is fucked up.”

He opened his mouth but no words came, and ended up dropping his head, then leaning against the door jamb, wanting to bang his head against something, over and over.

Slowly, he straightened and gave Holden a contrite look. Holden stared back darkly at him. He had fucked it up. It was time for him to leave.

“Can I call you in the morning?”

“Fine, whatever.”

He reached behind him and turned the door handle. Moving aside, he opened it and stepped out of the penthouse. Holden pushed the door closed after him and he clearly heard the yell of frustration Holden let out as soon as the door was shut.

Emotions flew through him. But there was nothing he could do right now that wouldn’t make things worse.

He would wait and call in the morning, and hope that Holden would answer his calls.

~*~

Holden didn’t answer his calls.

Not in the morning, nor for the rest of the day.

Or the day after that.

He left voice messages but knew it was a futile effort. Even in the best of circumstances Holden didn’t seem to experience the passage of time like everyone else did. Sometimes he felt a month and a day were the same thing to Holden once Holden decided that was to be the case.

It was usually more amusing than anything, but right now he was just feeling very chastened. He had no idea what had gotten into him that night.

On the fourth morning Holden called and asked whether he minded, but that some people had to work and couldn’t pick up the phone and chat all day.

He didn’t rise to it. He knew, with Holden’s agitation already about their new relationship status, he was going to have to take his hits without complaint.

“I was calling because,” he said in an even tone, “I got an invite from GLAAD to their annual media awards ceremony. And...it would really mean a lot to me if you would come as my plus one.”

He was being coy. And slightly manipulative. He knew of course that Holden had not only probably gotten an invite but being one of the major events in the gay community in L.A., Holden couldn’t possibly say no. He was guaranteed the winning play.

Holden had gone silent.

“Do you need me to give you the info? Date and time and all that?” he asked politely.

Holden’s voice was small and tight when he finally spoke. “It’s probably in my email. I’m invited every year.”

“Oh, well, that works out, doesn’t it?”

He pressed his lips and waited. He could feel Holden seething on the other end. And yet he couldn’t resist adding one more thing.

“Should I pick you up?”

“We’ll take a car from my place,” Holden told him immediately. “It’s usually held at the Century Plaza Hotel.”

By now he was grinning so hard he was pretty sure Holden could feel it. He managed to affirm that that was indeed the venue.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby at six,” Holden said, and then said a quick goodbye and hung up before Sean could start laughing outright.

He grinned and hung up.

Well, he was laughing now, but he really needed to break out his helmet and shoulder pads come next Saturday.

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

Holden looked like a dream.

He had waited, very self-consciously, in the lobby of the Wilshire for exactly fifty seconds before the elevator doors opened and Holden stepped out.

Holden had probably asked the valet to call him as soon as he arrived so that he wouldn’t be tempted to go up, a very good idea, seeing how he was standing in a public throughway feeling overdressed in a tux.

But all his thoughts vanished in a hot wind as Holden walked up to him, in a tailored tux and perfect from head to foot.

Holden started saying something about their car, halfheartedly indicating the building’s entrance. He seemed to be saying that their car was waiting, or something else, but responding to him was not in his power at the moment.

He felt breathless, just like in the songs, and couldn’t remember for the life of him what was supposed to happen next. He suddenly understood how people could start making out in public.

Suddenly conscious that he was reaching for Holden’s arm, to kiss him, he placed his hand on his hip instead and took a step back to let Holden walk past.

“You look good,” he said, lamely.

Holden threw him a look. “Thanks,” he said, and kept on walking. “I think we’re running late.”

~*~

The short limo ride into Century City was quiet.

Holden sat on the right side of the car while he sat on the left.

The interior was lit by a bluish-white light that also ran the length of the limo’s floor. Through the surreal color he could see Holden’s thoughtful expression, his head down and his eyes on his cupped hands, where Holden was rubbing his thumbs together.

When they waited for the light to turn green on Wilshire and Beverly Glen, Holden softly spoke.

“I met your fanclub the other day, by the way.”

He looked over at Holden. “What fanclub?”

“Gia and the girls.”

He smiled in amusement.

“She invited us over for dinner.”

“She always does that.” He shifted, turning a little in Holden’s direction. “We could go if you want.”

“No thanks.”

“Huh,” he said, conversationally. “I’m a little surprised. I thought you’d want to go. You like people.”

“Well, I guess I’m just not up for signing up for the Sean Jackson fanclub quite yet.”

He sighed. “Holden, honestly.”

Holden sat back, lowering himself in his seat. He looked straight ahead at the dark glass separating them from the driver’s cab, blinking steadily with whatever thoughts were going through his mind.

And all _he_ wanted to do was move over and get physical. He wondered when he had gotten so damn horny. Ultimately he just rubbed the back of his neck and laughed a little embarrassedly and said, “You look beautiful, by the way.” He laughed. “I think you stole my heart all over again.”

Holden slid him a look, then went back to staring straight ahead. “That’s great, Sean. I’m happy for you.”

He did move over, slowly, leaning in to kiss Holden on the cheek when he got close enough.

Holden didn’t respond. He moved back to his side of the limo and smiled all the way to the Century Plaza Hotel.

~*~

The awards ceremony was an unqualified blast.

The hosts and presenters were hysterical—one of them even making a joke about how Sean Jackson was the only player in the NFL who could use a gaydar to score touchdowns, which brought down the house.

They were sitting at the table next to Rosie O’Donnell, who reached over and grabbed his sleeve and told him they were all very proud of him. He thanked her, grinning like a little kid.

She lifted her chin toward Holden. “How long have you two been together?”

“Three years,” he said, then made a face. “On and off.”

She rolled her eyes. “Boy, do I understand.”

He laughed and sat back. Holden pretended not to have heard any of it.

And after the ceremony Ellen DeGeneres, whose show he had been a guest on earlier that month, spotted him and called him over for photo opportunities.

He took more pictures than he would have believed, seemingly pulled into one photo after another, finding himself posing for pictures with his arms around movie stars and gay community activists alike.

By the time they were ready to go into the after-party he was on a first name basis with half the guests.

Then, at the entrance to the banquet hall, he finally spotted Holden, who had been separated from him since the end of the awards presentation, schmoozing with the event organizers.

He moved to intercept as Holden walked towards the hall doors, taking Holden’s hand and pulling him out of the way of passing guests. When they were aside he smiled down at Holden.

Holden’s eyes zipped over his shoulder toward the mass of people around them in the hallway.

“What?” Holden asked quickly. But by Holden’s body language he was pretty sure Holden knew what he was about to do. What he had been dying to do all night.

Holden stiffened away from him. “Sean, don’t.”

But he sure did. He dropped his head and kissed Holden fully on the mouth, slipping him some tongue. Holden froze. So he took the opportunity and wrapped his arms around Holden and pulled him closer for an even better one.

Flashing lightbulbs and scattered applause accompanied their display, and Holden quickly pulled back. He let him, dropping his arms and grinning down at him before stepping back to let him into the hall.

Shooting him a fiery look, Holden went in, and he followed, feeling as happy as anyone had a right to be.

~*~

The limo ride back to Holden’s place was a very different one than the one before.

His black tie hung loose, his jacket and vest lay open, and his feet were halfway across the limo floor, shoeless. He’d had exactly one martini and couldn’t, simply could not imagine a more perfect night than the one he’d just had.

Holden was still impeccably shod, knotted, and buttoned, and was perfectly silent on his side. And really didn’t look like he was in the mood to deal with him. Therefore he kept his mouth shut.

When they finally cleared the mob of limos on Avenue of the Stars and were waiting to turn left onto Santa Monica Boulevard, Holden quietly said, “You couldn’t resist _branding_ me, could you?”

The words sank in slowly, and were so improbable that he stared at Holden for a good long while before he understood any of it.

When he did, and had to respond, he decided to chose his words very carefully. He decided he’d just cut out a lot and go straight to the point.

“I know what your deal is, Holden,” he said. “You made a decision about something that was difficult for you and now you’re freaked out. But whatever fears you’re experiencing aren’t real.”

Holden threw up a hand, turning to looking out his window.

“None of it is real,” he continued unperturbed. “’Cause nothing’s changed between us. It only got better. You’re just acting out based on the fear that you’ll fuck it up.” He paused, watching the emotions playing out on Holden’s face, all of which Holden was clearly trying to hide. “Am I right or am I wrong?”

“You’re—” Holden stopped.

He waited. The one thing Holden couldn’t seem to do was lie. When Holden didn’t say another word, he continued.

“We don’t have any problems in our relationship, sweetie,” he told him gently. “Trust me, I’d know.”

“Of course you would,” Holden said softly, still not looking at him.

He didn’t like the calmness in Holden’s voice.

“Just as you know when and where you want me to stand when you want to show the world that we’re a couple. I guess when you pick a date to show me off to your fanclub you’ll let me know about that as well and I’ll be dressed and ready to go.”

“Aw, come on. I didn’t mean it to come off like that, and you know it. I couldn’t care less about kissing in public. I only did it because I was so happy.”

“Well, I’m happy too but—”

“You sure don’t look it, Holden.”

As soon as the words were out he knew he shouldn’t have said them.

Holden turned, jaw dropped, and looked at him. He seemed to need a moment to find his words. “Why am I not surprised you would feel that way?” Holden sounded thoroughly sparked, and he cautioned himself to tread carefully or end up with the same result as from two weeks ago.

“After all,” Holden went on, worked up, “I haven’t sold my furniture and moved into your house yet, so of course I couldn’t possibly be happy.”

“Holden,” he sighed.

“No, you’re right. You and the whole world. You got exactly what you wanted. I committed. But now we’re not happy, are we? Happy couples are well-adjusted. They know each other’s favorite movies and songs, and what the other person likes for dinner each night. And oh, not to mention what the other person is thinking without having to ask!”

He winced, averting his gaze. He did know what Holden’s favorite movies and songs were and what he wanted for dinner most nights, _and_ what was going through his mind most of the time. But, he wanted to point out, he didn’t need any of that, that they both brought something to the relationship and he wasn’t in love with him because he knew what he liked for dinner. However, he suspected this might not be the right time to bring logic into the situation.

Holden turned away again, staring narrow-eyed into the street through his darkened window.

“And let’s not forget leaving stuffed animals on each other’s pillows.” Holden spoke quietly, clearly living out his own troubles. “And knowing when to say I love you, and giving a shit at minutia going wrong. And of course the all-time favorite— buying each other flowers and dumping truckloads of chocolate on one another at every little made-up holiday.”

“Sweetheart…”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Holden said, turning to him. He looked really pissed. “But I’m not buying stuffed animals, and I’m selling my furniture, and I’m _definitely_ not getting rid of my condo. Because I’m sick to death of being choked with fake bullshit.

“I never said—”

“And since we’re being honest with each other, you might as well know that I’d frankly rather live outdoors than move into that ugly concrete _Lego_ block you call a house.”

~*~

Sean had frozen.

But not before he had.

Had he said all that out loud?

He had. He could still here the words ringing in his ears.

And Sean’s bright blue eyes had turned almost black.

He stared wide-eyed at Sean.

Sean still hadn’t moved, as if he was having a hard time convincing himself he’d actually heard the words.

Sean’s hand moved, pushing the button next to the window control to activate the intercom.

“Hey,” Sean said into the intercom, perfectly calmly. “Could you pull over please? Right now.” Sean took his hand off the button and the limo immediately slowed. He turned and looked out at the street through the dark glass, seeing that the driver was indeed pulling over.

“What are you doing?” he asked hoarsely as Sean began shifting in his seat. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

The limo came to a complete stop and Sean moved forward in his seat. He gripped Sean’s sleeve.

“You’ve got a habit of shutting me out when you’re feeling insecure, Holden,” Sean told him, reaching for his shoes, pulling them on and angrily yanking on the laces. “And while that was okay in the past when I was a different person, not really aware of my own needs, it’s no going to fly now.”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

He’d whispered it, forced it out of his throat which felt like something that’d been sanded.

“You fucking wish.”

Sean dropped the laces, sat up and looked at him. Jaw set, eyes hardened, he said, “You’re not getting off that easy.”

He helplessly tightened his grip on Sean’s sleeve.

“Holden, what you don’t get is that you wouldn’t be sitting here if you didn’t want to be with me. You’re not that type of guy. You wouldn’t have agreed to get serious about our relationship, you wouldn’t have called me up back in March. But right now you’re going through a mental adjustment from being single, and it’s difficult, I get it. Like breaking an addiction. But you need to get a grip. Stop trying to piss me off and take some of the burden on yourself.”

He was drowning in Sean’s words. He wanted to beg for understanding because he didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how he was supposed to be doing it. How was he meant to be playing this part?

He hated expectations, hated roles. He hated what it did to perfectly healthy relationships. But more than anything he hated turning into this person who was perpetually bad in Sean’s life.

He knew that Sean cared that he didn’t return his calls for days, and wanted him to care about things like Valentine’s Day and knowing each other’s favorite movies. For god’s sake, he didn’t even know when Sean’s birthday was.

 _Why_ did things have to change? Why couldn’t they just go on the way they had?

These were all the things he wanted to say to Sean. To beg for some kind of understanding.

But this time words failed him. The words were bunched inside him and were unable to get out, and it was too unnerving to think of what might happen if he did try to get them out, and they came out all wrong. He couldn’t think of things like losing Sean.

Sean peeled his hand off his arm. He released Sean, looking down at his empty hand with a heart that felt broken.

“Until you get your act together,” Sean said, again calmly, “Holden, don’t call me. I mean it this time.” He reached for the door handle, then stopped, and without turning said, “and don’t even _think_ of coming to my concrete blockhouse.”

Sean push open the limo door, climbed out and slammed the door behind him.

And all he did was sit there and watch.

~*~

_it was quiet in his bedroom. only the ticking grandfather clock out in the hallway could be heard. it was...ding, ding, ding...three o’clock in the morning. he continued his contemplation of the patterns on the ceiling plaster. he had to get up at some point, had to at least change his sheets. he was wearing his t-shirt and jeans from...yesterday, he guessed, and the faxes from that evening were scattered around his body. but his toes felt good curling into the sheets, and his back... his back had found contentment on the mattress and his fingers loved trailing along the headboard, so why should he move? he’d done work from here for the past two days and the cleaning staff had brought food in to him just that morning and it wasn’t as if he had anywhere, oh say, malibu, to be. he would just lie here until it all went away. until his heart stopped hurting and his boyfriend—his best friend in the whole world—who was so mad at him, could forgive him. he wasn’t allowed to call, wasn’t allowed to visit, couldn’t tell him what was going on with him, so all he could do was stare at the ceiling until something changed, up there or down here. anyway, his stomach had begun to tighten, and his body to warm up, and he realized he must have been fantasizing about sean without realizing. he didn’t think he had fantasized this much about Sean even when they were together. this time it was that sean was really just taking a shower right there in his bathroom at that moment, and not separated from him at all. since his fantasy had started, sean had come of the bathroom and was now crawling into bed with him, sliding over him. his muscles flexed as he wrapped his arms around his waist, pulled him so close he felt like he was being crushed. hmm. some of the fantasies were more detailed than the others. this one, as he all but felt sean’s fingers find his nipples under his T-shirt and make him shudder, was more detailed. he felt a slow erection forming inside his jeans, ridiculous considering that he wasn’t about to actually get any. he told himself to get a grip. it’s what sean had said. get a grip. but he had a grip. he was a failure at love. it was like wanting to have his cake and eat it too; it couldn’t be done, at least not for him. but that wasn’t the really terrifying part. the terrifying part was that when it was all said and done, failed, so walk away, he still didn’t know how he was supposed to let sean go._

_i have seen the enemy, he thought to himself, remembering his words to captain kate hazeltine on the flight back from leipzig, and the enemy is me._

~*~

On the morning of May fifth, right before the clock struck noon, everything changed.

It was the Tuesday after the GLAAD awards and he had spent the morning trying to put thoughts of Holden out of his head and motivate himself to do some work. He had a ton of paperwork and emails to sort through and after two days of brooding he thought he would be done by now.

But he was still smarting over Holden’s comment about his house and he was upset at Holden’s refusal to take control of his side of things.

He probably would try breaking up with Holden and trying again in four months but he had already tried that, and it hadn’t taken. They wanted to be together, so they were just going to have to grow up and take responsibility for their side of the relationship. He’d come out of the closet for the guy for heaven’s sake.

Facing that he couldn’t concentrate on responding to correspondence no matter how much he wanted to, he switched programs on his laptop and checked if his sister was online.

She was. The window popped up as she slipped behind her computer desk.

She held up both hands and crossed her fingers. “Did the Chargers say yes?”

“Not yet.”

She slumped, but looked fierce. “Don’t worry, kiddo. They will. Paula’s right. They don’t have any reason to cut your pay when you’re coming off a record season.”

“Hi, Sean!” someone called from somewhere in the house. It was his sister-in-law, Kay.

“Hey, Kay,” he said, tugging lifelessly on his ear.

Allison turned in her chair and called out, “He says hi,” and turned back to him. “Sean, you look _morose._ ”

Probably. But he couldn’t even pretend to be cheerful. He dismissed the issue with his fingers.

Allison leaned forward, undeterred. “Is it Holden?”

A second later Kay appeared beside her and was pushing her face into the webcam.

He almost laughed. They loved hearing gossip about Holden, whom they had never met and had only seen in pictures he sent off the web.

“Isn’t it always about Holden?” he asked tiredly.

“What happened?” Kay cooed.

He let out a sigh. “He said I wanted to _brand_ him.”

“Ooh, dirty,” Allison purred. “You gay boys are so dirty.”

Kay swatted her and he couldn’t help chuckling.

“He’s acting crazy, is all,” he told them.

Both women were seven years older and maybe it was time he started getting serious relationship advice from them.

“Hmm,” Allison said, nodding sagely. “Yup, all the good ones are crazy,” she said, jerking her head in the direction of her spouse. Kay patiently closed her eyes and made a face.

He laughed under his breath. Well, maybe not relationship advice…

Allison sat forward. “No, seriously, Sean, don’t hold this stuff against him. It’s not a big deal.”

He was about to ask what she’d consider a big deal, when high-pitched screaming broke out in the recesses of their house. Kay departed without a word and Allison rolled her eyes.

“We’re hosting five preschoolers because Kay’s considering becoming a preschool teacher, and I keep telling her she’s going to blow her brains out.” She turned and looked in the direction of the screams.

“I should let you go,” he said reluctantly.

She turned around and made a sad face. “Are you sure? Okay,” she said at his nod. “Call me as soon as you hear from the team. Bye, love you.”

He closed the program and sat back in his recliner for a few moments. Then he closed the laptop altogether and set aside all the letters and got up. He headed into the sunroom.

His sunroom, a hardwood floored area toward the back of the house, sat between his bedroom and the back stairs leading outside and down to the beach. On one side of the room, the side facing the beach, was a slanted floor-to-ceiling glass window. It showed a spectacular view of the ocean and let in all the sunlight he could crave. He used the space as his gym.

It was laid out with equipment but right now the object of his attention was a suspension unit he had ordered for upside-down crunches. It had been delivered that morning, and with his mind unable to focus he might as well start putting it together.

Passing his bedroom he stopped to turn up the sound and make sure the TV was on CNN—as with the constant speculation about his contract status he didn’t think he could stomach ESPN right now—and that was the only reason he caught the news as it was breaking.

“Yes, Lisa, it was _this_ photograph of _former_ Chargers quarterback Sean Jackson _kissing_ another man at the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation’s annual Media Awards ceremony,” a glowing-eyed correspondent was saying, “held on Saturday, that sparked the controversy. Family Research Council Senior Fellow Peter Sturgess had this to say.”

“These are the images we are exposing our children to. The outrageous flaunting of all that is natural and ordered in our society, and this is a man who is idealized as a role model for our kids. Well, we’re not standing by and doing nothing. This man poses a threat to our children and steps have already been put in place to ensure that we reach our goal of excluding Sean Jackson from _any_ National Football League events that will expose him to kids. This is a fight we’re ready to take all the way to the courts if need be.”

The news report cut back from the stern faced, suited man who had been talking, and showed the reporter talking animatedly into the mic.

The reported _seemed_ to be talking animatedly, but he wasn’t hearing a thing. He just stared at the TV.

His mind could not make sense of any of the words on the screen, nor of any of the images he was seeing.

He had heard and seen his name on TV for almost two decades now, ever since he had made varsity football in high school and started breaking records. But what he was now seeing was incomprehensible.

There was the picture of him kissing Holden, with his name at the bottom in a weird font, like, a scary font. And then pictures of him on the field…with more giant, scary fonts—this time split screened with quotes from people he had never heard of, calling him a threat to kids.

He kept blinking at the TV. Then he looked down at the remote in his hand.

He seemed to have hit the slow motion button, as everything was moving so slowly. But it didn’t seem he had… Then something was chirping inside his house.

He turned slowly and let his feet carry him into his living room, where he found his phone flashing where he had left it beside his laptop. He simply walked over and picked it up. The screen was flashing “Kara incoming.” He tapped the answer button and put the phone to his ear.

“Kara,” he said blankly. “I just saw—”

“Sean, hold on,” Kara said loudly. “I’ve got Paula on the other line.”

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

The world around him proceeded to explode.

Kara released several statements denouncing every accusation and upholding the record of his conduct in the NFL, Paula called him every two seconds—to tell him to keep his head together—his family every other, and his lawyers in the alternating seconds.

The news reports updated by the minute. Everyone instantly, even before CNN had become aware of the story, and apparently because the photo of the kiss had been circulating on the web since the day before, got in on it: the league, the national LGBT organization, sportswriters, bloggers, commentators, politicians, at least one outspoken NFL player—“It’s a picture of him kissing a guy. Dude is gay. Where’s the controversy?”, and the ACLU—no, the Family Research Council could not keep Sean Jackson from participating in events organized by the NFL, a private organization and separate from themselves, and, of course, church leaders—“This is _exactly_ what’s wrong with America!”

And that was all within the first two days. 

By the third day he had become a prisoner in his home.

Media vans blocked the exit from the cul-de-sac’s private street and news helicopters hovered during the hours they had permission. He had to keep his lights off at night and the bodyguards in the black Blazer moved into their street proper.

There were now four men in the SUV. He watched through his front windows as the black-suited men showed their IDs to neighbors who approached to ask their business. Though his neighbors didn’t look pleased, none of them asked the bodyguards to leave. Gia and girls had come over on the first morning and put up blinds and Japanese room dividers along most of his glass walls and were taking turns bringing him groceries.

Nothing additional had happened—what _could_ happen when he was stuck in the house not agitating anything?—except that the media was continually airing new interviews with anti-gay “leaders” from all over the country, who hourly had some new dimension to explore.

The Family Research Council had sent an official request letter to the league demanding that they exclude him from the Youth Training Camp, happening in July. The league had responded that they had no reason to, since he hadn’t violated any NFL codes of conduct or engaged in any criminal activities, which was what had prompted anti-gay groups and politicians across the country to join the fray. Those groups then unleashed a media blitz to win public support and the polls were being published daily on news updates. As far as he could tell, it appeared to be Christians wanting to punish him for coming out.

All these years, he had kept it to himself, never burdened anyone with it, never acted like an entitled asshole in the league, never did anything except concentrate on playing football and keeping in touch with his family as he moved from city to city. All of which were enumerated in Kara’s press releases, but seemed to have all counted for nothing. There was, he came to face as he peeked through his blinds and tried to understand all of it, no exemplary behavior that could have saved him from this pain. 

The ACLU, his lawyers had told him, could do nothing until an action was taken against him, the expected one being a law suit to prevent him from participating in the camp in July. LAMBDA had launched an internet campaign, bloggers were championing either his or the FRC’s side, and the parents of the kids who were to attend the training camps weighed in. 

Half were for, half were against. 

And there it simply stagnated, while he literally wilted. 

He had stopped eating days ago and didn’t know how he was going to keep his head together for the next day and the day after that, morning, noon and night. 

He woke up each morning and couldn’t go for a run, couldn’t go near the windows, couldn’t turn _off_ the TV, couldn’t make himself speak above a hoarse croak. His heart raced nonstop. 

He listened to reports, kept checking blogs and sites and comments, feeling sick every time he did it, but unable to stop. 

He was waiting for a break in the madness, someone to simply step in and tell them all to stop. 

But it didn’t happen.

By the fifth day he looked down the street to see protesters choking the entrance to their private street. 

By the seventh day he couldn’t get out of bed.

~*~

It was finally over.

Harry Bertrand had accepted all but one of their conditions for a commitment for sale, and the one he had not accepted had been a long shot anyway. It was all fine by his firm. They shook hands over the agreement and he was finally able to leave his hotel room with thoughts of unwinding.

He was back on St. Bart’s and riddled with guilt.

He rode the elevator to the lobby and walked slowly across it, heading towards the open-air exterior in search of warm breezes and a paradise view, not to mention soothing thoughts.

He had been on the island in blissful seclusion for almost a week, and frankly the thought of staying for the rest of the month didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Just until he could get his head straight over Sean. 

And why not? People ran away from real life all the time. And he could work easily from here. Maybe even easier now that they were committed to putting the Bertrand Estate on the international market. He reached the exterior doors and stopped for a moment while the sliding doors opened. He walked outside and looked around. 

The hotel bar looked very different now that he was sober.

He heard someone suddenly calling his name. Surprised, he looked across the expanse of roughhewn tables and chairs to see the bartender waving at him. Benoit. He slowly walked over, when he got close enough, giving the bartender a look.

“Did I tell you my name that last time?”

“You told me plenty of things,” Benoit said easily. “Have a seat.”

A glass of Martini Rosso slid in front of him and he stilling as he was about sitting down, he looked at it in trepidation. The drink was skillfully slid out of his view, a tall glass of iced water replacing it. He gratefully sat down, taking it.

“How’d it go with your lover boy?”

He flicked Benoit a look. “Not good.”

“Ah. Sorry to hear that. Truly.”

He nodded, raising his head to look at the man. “So what would you do? If you wanted to be with someone, only to find that you and he weren’t on the same page? What would be your next move?”

Benoit nodded to a patron, who was raising her empty glass at the other end of the bar, then gave him a perplexed smile.

“We bartenders don’t give advice, we listen. Everybody knows that.”

He stared. Benoit, wiping down a glass, waggled an eyebrow at him. 

“But you told me to go home and talk to him,” he protested, finding himself laughing.

“That we’re allowed to say. Sober up, go home, you’ve had enough… That sort of thing.”

He snorted and shook his head. “You disappoint me.”

Benoit shook up the lady’s drink, and as he poured it caught his eye with a smile. “Well then, how about this one— It’ll be all right.”

He sighed deeply. “Yeah,” he said softly, while Benoit took the drink over. “I could drink to that.”

~*~


	6. Chapter 6

He didn’t stay in St. Bart’s for the month, of course.

He returned to L.A. the following day and went straight to the office. There, as he walked by reception toward his office, he found, for some reason everyone staring at him. 

He couldn’t imagine what it could be except that an emergency must have cropped up while he had still been in the air. But no one had left him a call about it?

He was further confused when upon entering his office, three of their senior executives trotted in on his heels, closing the door behind them and arraying themselves around the room. 

He stared in confusion at them, even more baffled when they stared back at him as though he was meant to have grown wings, but somehow hadn’t. He had a pretty good relationship with his senior staff and their office culture was laid back, but this was… 

Standing behind his desk, he set down his briefcase and took a guess. 

“My father married a new wife.”

Craig, their vice president of marketing and a good friend, stepped forward with an astonished look and picked up the TV remote from a side table. 

“What rock have you been living under?” Craig said in an excited voice. He clicked on the TV.

The screen flickered on to CNN, the channel on which he usually kept it. He took a seat and waited.

There was a report about a mining accident. His brow furrowed. Craig made a sound of disgust and pressed the remote several times. The channel was suddenly on ESPN. 

And with a total sense of disbelief, he watched.

When the smug sportscasters were through making Sean’s coming out into the biggest joke of the century, he stood up.

Walking over, he wriggled his fingers at Craig who immediately handed him the remote. Then he made shooing motions at the three executives and all of them quickly filed out, but not before Craig, who was also gay and out, gave him a look over his shoulder. 

He understood the look in Craig’s eyes. And he understood it without the need for interpretation. Someone had declared war on them.

Keeping the channel on ESPN but turning down the sound, he pulled out his cell phone and checked for Kara Monahan’s number. He found it and reached for his office phone, tapping the numbers in. 

Kara answered immediately. “Holden,” she said breathlessly, flustered and surprised. Regarding the latter, he didn’t know why.

“What time do you have to meet?” he asked her.

“Anytime,” she almost exclaimed, sounding even more surprised.

He told her he’d be at her office in twenty minutes. He hung up and was still for a moment, contemplating, then made a decision. He tapped the SMS icon on his phone and sent Sean a text saying he was back in town but would see him later.

He hit the send button, picked up his jacket, and left his office.

~*~

The first thing he did when he sat across Kara was apologize for being abrupt.

“But this is how it’s going to be,” he said, watching her expression. “I don’t like being behind and I won’t be capable of focusing on anything else until I’ve resolved this. I’d like to be clear on that.”

She waved a hand, her head shaking wildly. “Hey, if you ask me, it’s about time someone started looking out for him.”

He tilted his head. “Isn’t that your job?”

“Sure,” she said, shrugging in exasperation. “On the professional side. But contractually I can’t handle anything in his personal life. It’s a standard contract clause that clients ignore, but Sean won’t back down and he won’t even hear me bring it up!”

He narrowed his eyes, her words sinking in. “Are you telling me Sean’s letting this whole thing just _float_ out there on its own?”

“ _Yes._ We could have buried Peter Sturgess and the FRC days ago but _everything_ is going unmanaged. Sean says we should just wait and it’ll all go away.”

“All go away?” he asked in amazement.

“That’s what I’ve been saying! I’ve been sitting here with ants down my pants!” Perched on the edge of her chair, her hair a mess, she did indeed look torn up. Dark circles ringed her eyes and her nails were torn and bitten down to nothing. 

He had to instantly stop himself from imagining what Sean was going through. He couldn’t think about that right now if he was going to be of any use to anyone.

He sat back and lifted his briefcase from the floor.  “Kara, let’s get started on this,” he said, then stopped and looked at her. “I’m assuming you have time right now?”

Nostrils flaring, she turned to her monitor. “Are you kidding?” She slid her keyboard toward her. “Let’s take care of this guy.”

He involuntarily caught a breath. Though he knew it was the Family Research spokesman she meant, his mind quietly whispered that no, it was actually Sean she meant, that he, in his self-absorbed, self-pitying doldrums, hadn’t done any such thing.

Kara suddenly turned to him with a savvy, narrowed-eyed look. “You _are_ going to take responsibility for all this when Sean finds out, aren’t you? This is unauthorized on my part.”

He pulled several files from his briefcase. “Kara,” he said, setting them down in a pile on her desk. “You leave Sean Jackson to me. We have an assault to plan.”

~*~

First, he made sense of the NFL world to himself. 

He found out who the high profile players were and what past criminal or personal trouble any of them had. And there were plenty. And yet none of it had had any effect on any player’s participation in fan events. Well, he trusted the American public not to care about rape charges and manslaughter DUIs when it came to their precious football players.

Next he found out all he could about the NLF’s commissioner, the person who in the end decided what was going to happen with penalizing players in the league. He checked whether there were any problems in the man’s life that the media didn’t know about. Interestingly, he also had a gay brother.

Next he looked into exactly which of the events the snide-faced “senior fellow” at the FRC wanted to keep Sean from attending—as for searching for hidden land mines in Sturgess’ own personal life, well, that went without saying. 

The even Sturgess had selected for his campaign was a month-long youth training camp that the NFL teams around the country organized within their communities. The camps brought kids from across the team’s state into sessions where they were taught life skills through sports. It was the highest profile fan-event the players put together. And a rather mean event to select.

After that he met with Sean’s lawyers. At first the firm was reluctant to meet with him, for the obvious reason that he wasn’t their client. But he was able to assure them that he wanted nothing confidential, merely their perspective. And so they were able to brief him on the NFL’s legalities—that basically, unless Sean had violated the league’s Code of Personal Conduct, or was arrested for a crime, the NFL actually had no legal standing on which to block his participation.

“However,” the head partner told him, the old man looking at a loss himself. “As we all know, that’s not the problem. The problem is that this is a matter of public opinion. And of public pressure.” He had nodded, taken notes.

And with that meeting he just about covered all he needed to know to start making the calls that actually mattered. The next day was spent contacting four particular people, and to his luck each of them was in town. He set a meeting for Friday afternoon, two days from then.

And while he was doing all this, Sean never stopped calling him.

~*~

Holden was refusing to answer his calls.

He knew what Holden was up to, as Kara was updating him by the hour, and he knew his lawyers had talked to Holden and given him, in spite of what they had told him, god knew what information.

He was losing his mind. The voicemails he was leaving Holden went from initial surprise that Holden would dare go against his explicit commands to trying to reason with him, to outright threatening him. He promised Holden that if he didn’t stop what he was doing he’d stop calling him—which even to his desperate ears didn’t make any sense, but he was at his wit’s end. 

He devolved to simply begging Holden to stop, that why did he want to add fuel to the fire?

But even as he left the messages he knew it was pointless. Holden was mentally wherever he went when he couldn’t return calls. The only way to confront him was to go to his office or to his condo. 

Neither of which he could do because of the media siege outside his house.

So now on top of everything else, he was also beside himself with irritation.

~*~

On Friday afternoon, he and Kara met with the The Four Horsemen, as they liked to call themselves, at Spago in Beverly Hills. 

The restaurant was filled as usual with Hollywood power players, and though he seldom entered their domain, it felt like the perfect location for this meeting. 

He introduced Kara to the men as they arrived. 

In the matter of protecting gay rights there were those who went out on the streets to protest, and there were those, gay and allied, who, especially in L.A., stayed behind the scenes to pull some very long strings. Both sides were needed, and depending on the nature of the problem, one side could weigh in more than the other. In Sean’s case, this was the side that would weigh in very heavily indeed.

The first to arrive was a former studio head, a man who appeared very genteel but treated outmaneuvering his enemies like bloodsport. The second was _the_ publicist, the one who effectively ran the town, a man who knew or could access anyone’s secrets. The third was a billionaire financier—a friendly older gentleman who was suspected by everyone in town of being a former arms dealer, and the fourth was the most powerful agent in town, his connections going all the way to the White House. Three of them were gay, one was allied.

They got right to it.

The publicist explained, while the other men around the table nodded, that in America no one cared about anything unless it was on TV. It was why the FRC hadn’t stopped sending people out to Fox News to keep the deluge going. 

“No amount of blogging or press releases can compete with that,” he said.

“What we can do,” the movie studio head said, “is an industry-style publicity blitz. This playing nice crap with press releases is for the kids,” he added, turning to Kara. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Kara said. 

She looked calmer, not run down like he had seen her a few days ago, and definitely not high-strung like she had been when he first met her.

“And this is absolutely true,” the agent agreed. “There is no fucking winning by facts and figures. There are too many dumb fucks out there swayed purely by their shitty McDonald’s eating emotions to give a two-dollar fuck about the truth.”

He stilled his pen, trying not to look up. Wow. He had almost forgotten how Hollywood agents talked.

“So I say let’s fuck these guys without a rubber. Let’s make that asshole look like _Satan,_ and watch them fucking implode. That... _fellowship_ prick.”

“Senior Fellow,” Kara muttered around clearing her throat. The agent gave her a dirty look.

“Yes,” the financier Hanan, said in his deep, measured voice. “I must say I agree. I believe that in a case like this what we need is a scorched earth policy.”

The agent nodded and he looked at Hanan. “I like the sound of that.” 

Hanan dipped his head. 

The studio head then clarified that the idea was not to win by simply having Sean be able to participate whatever league event he chose, “We want to remind football fans how wonderful he is. That he’s so much of everything they love about famous people, they’ll go to these events _wanting_ to see him there, dying to show their support. Otherwise, even if we make the FRC go away, the fans will resent Sean’s presence at these events, and possibly decide not to attend.”

“Which is the league’s concern,” Kara added. She then confirmed that Sean had no scandals, nothing dirty about his past could be dug up. Agreeing then that it was indeed a publicity war to win, they got to work on putting together a strategy. 

In an hour and a half they had it done.

The table dispersed and he and Kara stood up to leave while Hanan smiled at him. He was packing up his briefcase. Hanan was an old family friend. 

“How’s your father, Holden?” the old man asked, and it was obvious he already knew the answer to whatever question he was building up to ask.

Putting on a smile, he said brightly, “He’s great.”

“I heard he got remarried.”

He tried not to make a face, nodding slowly instead.

“Is that his third?”

“Yup.”

Hanan burst into rich, effusive laughter, clutching his belly. 

He could only shake his head, keeping his smile on his face. As he recalled, Hanan was on his fourth.

~*~

As a very special bonus it turned out that Kara was in a relationship with the editorialist on the local news station, the one who had smartly compared Sean’s coming out to other historic sporting firsts. 

Kara gladly talked to him.

And finally, on Saturday morning, the morning of the sixteenth, he had breakfast with one of the big names at CNN, a journalist who was gay but not out, but who was a strident supporter of the community. 

A major network corporation being the last piece he needed in place, he felt ready to see Sean. 

He waited until evening and hired a boat.

~*~

He’d gotten a message to Sean’s next door neighbor, Gia, and was thrilled to see that she and her housemates had done exactly as he’d asked. 

They were standing on Sean’s bedroom balcony waving excitedly at him as the speedboat he was on zoomed in a circle before slowing to an idle. 

He, of course, couldn’t so much as raise his hand. 

At the moment his fear of the water was complete. The owner of the hired boat, in shorts and nothing else and as buff and tanned as you please, put the boat in park and sauntered into the back to stand grinning over him.

“Want me to go get him?” Brad—of course his name was Brad—cheerfully asked. 

He nodded, and breathed. Heart tripping like a rabbit’s, he tried not to look at his immediate surroundings. With daylight gone the dark water looked even stranger and more foreboding. So who the hell could tell what was lurking down there.

Brad’s grin broadened. “Be right back.”

And Brad did go get Sean, releasing a jet ski from the side of the boat and mounting it like it regularly bottomed for him. 

By the lights around the house, he could see Sean coming down the side stairs, looking in absolute confusion at the girls pushing and shoving at him. They pressed a duffle into his hands and waved.

Sitting back against the cushions of the boat, he told himself to just keep breathing and stay relaxed. He just had to pretend he was back in his condo and not bobbing like bait on the Pacific, and everything would be all right. It was almost over. He suddenly patted his chest in horror, then let out a shaking breath as he verified that he did indeed have his life vest on. 

Then he just kept his eyes closed and prayed.

~*~

Sean, poor thing, did not make for a happy house guest.

Sean told him, in controlled tones that he couldn’t help but admire, precisely why he couldn’t just come along and abduct someone. Then he told him that whatever he had been up this week, he would have to answer for it. But that in the meantime, Sean was pointing down the hallway, he was going to stay in the guest bedroom and he would really appreciate it if he would do him the courtesy of leaving him alone.

“I don’t want to deal with you right now, Holden. I mean it.”

Without waiting for any kind of a response, Sean grabbed his duffle and went straight for the stairs and up to the guest bedroom.

He followed.

Sean slammed the door but didn’t lock it, so he turned the nob and slowly pushed open the door. Leaning against the jamb, he watched Sean dump his things on the bed and kick off his sneakers.

Sean looked terrible. His hair was dull and clumped in spikes and his eyes were dark and hallow, and it seemed he had lost some weight. 

It was such a contrast to how he remembered him from the night of the GLAAD awards, when Sean had looked like what people meant when they called someone “a fucking stud.” But he had been acting too stupidly to even tell him as much. 

It felt like a year ago.

Sean went into the bathroom and he waited by the door. He heard the shower running but didn’t move. 

He had never in his life had people say to his face the things that Sean had had to endure from perfect strangers. People who neither knew who he was nor cared about him as a person.

So what Sean was going through mentally at that moment, he couldn’t hope to understand. But it assured him, if he ever had doubted it, that every favor he had called in, every string he hadn’t hesitated to pull and every boat he had gladly rocked, had been worth it. He would do it a hundred times over again.

Sean came out of the bathroom some minutes later, and without looking in his direction got into bed. He laid on his back and stared up at the ceiling.

“Are you just going to stand there?”

“No,” he said after a moment, pushing away from the door. He went over and stood next to the bed. 

Sean scrubbed a hand over his face, tiredly closing his eyes. He slowly began climbing in. “Holden,” Sean groaned, then turned away. 

He laid down behind Sean and wrapped his arm around his waist, using it as leverage to pull himself close. Sean stiffened, holding his body away from him. They laid like that for a time, and he was still awake when Sean fell asleep. And at that time Sean let it all go, practically passing out with immense exhaustion.

He leaned over and kissed Sean on the temple, then on his cheek, then softly his lips. Sean continued to breath softly, evenly.

He kept his arms around him as he laid back down, and eventually went to asleep.

~*~

“Wolfgang asked after you. I had lunch at Spago on Friday.”

It was 8am, they were in his kitchen, and it was nice and sunny in his penthouse. He thought Sean would like that.

Sean muttered something Sean didn’t care to make distinct, but he understood it well enough.

“Sean,” he admonised with a smile, shoving scrambled eggs around the skillet. He was making breakfast. “I can’t believe you’re still talking about it. What’s done is done.”

“Holden,” Sean groaned, rubbing his forehead. He looked tired despite his long sleep. “I get it. I get what you’re doing and why you’re doing it. I do. But I’m telling you, you’re overcompensating.” 

“That’s not what you said last night.”

Silence descended.

He stole a look and found Sean staring at him dumbfounded.

“I’m just kidding,” he said, whispering to keep from laughing, and kind of falling in love all over again.

Sean sagged, then came over and leaned his hip against the counter next to him. “Holden, you don’t have to do this.”

“Already done it.”

“You’ll start a feud. Don’t you see that? The best thing to do about these kind of things is to ignore them and they'll go away.”

“I beg to differ.”

Sean pulled back, unfurling his full height. “I don’t want you doing this,” he said firmly.

He smiled, finding Sean’s efforts at intimidating him very cute. 

“And I don’t care,” he said. And he really didn’t. He lifted the lid and checked the waffles in his waffle maker. “People,” he told his very upset boyfriend, “no matter what they say, don’t like weakness. They pretend to be on your side and commiserate, but in the end they just wish someone would destroy you and take you off their hands.” 

He put the waffles on two plates, then reached for a sugar jar and grabbed a long-handled spoon from a drawer. “That’s not going to happen to you,” he said, popping the lid on the sugar jar. “Not on my watch. _No one_ is getting in the way of your career. And certainly not some bitter, closeted queen. I’m in a commitment with you now, remember?” He sprinkled sugar from the spoon onto his waffles. “So deal.”

Sean was staring at him. He didn’t look over.

“Oh, wait,” he said, remembering. “You don’t like sugar on your waffles.”

He put down the spoon and turned off the stove and picked up the plate with Sean’s waffles. Opening the fridge, he piled on all the fresh raspberries he’d had delivered, then heaped all the scrambled eggs from the skillet onto the plate right next to the waffles.

Then he poured out a big glass of orange juice, turned, and handed them, waffles and OJ, to Sean who took them on automatic.

He picked up his own plate. “Come on.” 

Sean didn’t move, just stood there staring down at him with his pale blue eyes. Sean had a look that didn’t seem to know whether to be annoyed or was just still tired.

He made it easy for Sean by gently shoving him with his shoulder, encouraging him to move.

Sean sighed and turned around, walking ahead of him into the dining room. They sat down at the table and he wolfed down his waffles while Sean stared at his. Finally, Sean brought his arm up from under the table and picked up his fork.

He watched as Sean ate the whole thing, berries, eggs and all. Considering that Sean looked like he hadn’t enjoyed a good meal in days, it was heartening to see. Not to mention very sexy.

Sean finished, drank all his orange juice, wiped his mouth and slowly sat back. He didn’t look full of joy, but at least he had more color. 

“I guess I was hungry,” Sean said. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He watched Sean for a moment longer, observing his less than happy state. Then he said, “Why don’t you go back to bed?”

Sean grimaced. “I can’t just go back to bed,” he said quietly. 

“Why not?” He got up from his chair, walking over to Sean. “Because the world is coming to an end?” He took Sean’s hands and began moving away from the table.

Sean just sat there. He stopped, turned around and began tugging gently, keeping it up until Sean reluctantly began to stand up.

“Holden,” he said softly, sounding apologetic. “I don’t think I can… I’m not…”

He widened his eyes, seeing the color on Sean’s face. “Sean Jackson, how dare you presume.”

Sean laughed reluctantly. But he had stared moving.

So he pulled Sean all the way up the stairs and into the guest bedroom. Sean entered the room after him, slowly closing the door behind him. Then Sean reached for him, pulling him towards him by his waist.

He shook his head, his expression serious. “Sean, you don’t have to.”

“I know,” Sean said, and his voice had gone deeper. “I want to.”

He bumped gently against Sean and discovered for himself that Sean indeed did. 

But he didn’t want Sean to lift a finger. So he touched him on his cock, stroked his fingers over the stiff ridge held down by the cotton of Sean’s briefs, made smoother through the material of Sean’s jogging pants.

Sean let out a soft breath, wrapping his arms around him and letting his head fall back against the door. He leaned in and touched his tongue to the column of Sean’s neck, licking softly. Sean moaned and pushed into his hand, rocking gently. 

Knowing that Sean got nervous whenever he tried something new in bed, he understood that this was the time to keep it simple.

Slipping his hand into Sean’s shorts, pushing into the elastic material, he moaned with pleasure as Sean’s fullness slipped into his cupped hand. 

Sean dropped his head forward to his shoulder, his arms tightening around him. He cradled Sean’s head in his arms, turning toward him. He felt Sean’s hot breath on his mouth, pressed his mouth to Sean’s lips and took in Sean’s heavy gasps as he rubbed him, squeezed his cock.

Sean went from a gentle rocking to a hard rhythm and he held on, his tongue searching out the corner of his warm mouth. Sean rocked harder, until he was shaking, pulling on his T-shirt. Then he was gasping softly, over and over, while his cock spurted, pouring coming into his cupped hand, down his fingers.

He made gentle, approving sounds as Sean sagged, holding onto him. And he held him while Sean caught his breath. Then he pulled back, pulling Sean with him.

Sean came without protest, getting into the bed while he waited to make sure he was comfortable. Then he bent over, kissing him on his lips before reaching for the lamp and turning away. 

But Sean reached up and took his arm, pulling him into bed with him. He was indecisive for a moment, thinking Sean needed his rest, but then thought better of it and got in, holding him tight when Sean pushed his head into his shoulder. Within minutes, Sean was asleep.

~*~


	7. Chapter 7

He was miserable in this place.

Holden had had the balls to accuse him of living in a concrete blockhouse. What the heck did he call a high-rise? 

He missed the sound of the water, the sunlight off the ocean, his morning runs. He hated being in a building full of hundreds of other people, hated being stuck with stuck-up Westside people, and hated using an indoor gym like the one they had downstairs. 

And worst of all, he couldn’t find ESPN on Holden's cable lineup. He couldn’t believe that the one in Malibu could be so different from the one on the Westside, and when he asked Holden about it Holden had only said, “I have no idea.” He kept his sanity by Skyping with his sister.

She made him show her and Kay Holden’s penthouse, which they just _adored._ Which made him feel even more like a heel for not being able to appreciate it, especially after yesterday. But the place looked like a magazine ad for period French homes, and with all the white furniture it just didn’t seem like somewhere a person could unwind in. And what Holden was doing with a four bedroom, five and a half bath home was beyond him.

Allison waved away his issues, saying she was just happy that Holden had gone and rescued him. And there wasn’t much he could say to that, as it was true. 

So he just sucked it up and lived it with.

On TV, people were still talking about him. Kelvin Moore on KVLA, however, whom Kara had told him to watch, had somehow made it his business to compile every slur and falsehood made against him, and compare it to persecutions endured by other “firsts” in sports history.

Listening to Kelvin’s segments helped him more than he could say, and gave him hope that there was still some sense in the world.

And then on Tuesday morning, two weeks after it had started, it somehow, suddenly, began to end. He sat up and sat forward on the sofa, watching with astonishment.

A local “citizen journalist” in Jacksonville, Florida, had apparently encountered Peter Sturgess of the FRC in a hallway, after Sturgess had finished speaking before a group of “concerned” anti-gay parents at a local school.

Whether it was because of what journalist said to first antagonize Peter Sturgess, a question which was not caught on video, or whether it was because Sturgess felt comfortable with the people he was surrounded by at the time, nobody was ever able to figured out.

But what Peter Sturgess spat out on the man’s hidden camera about gay people, right down to their children, was enough to go viral on YouTube.

~*~

He answered Sean’s call when Sean reached him at his office. Now he was answering all of Sean’s calls.

He had just seen the video on CNN, the result of the work of the publicist with whom he and Kara had had lunch. 

Even at the highest level of cooperation, his friend at CNN had explained to him, the mainstream media would hesitate to air something as vile as what they had had in mind to catch on video. But if the video went viral on the web, the brass would wash their hands of the responsibility and air away.

Sure enough, just minutes after the news of the video broke exclusively on CNN, the rest of the network and cable news networks lit up the airwaves with it.

Sean was, uncharacteristically and inarticulately, all but shouting down the line. “Did you see the video with the guy about the _thing?_ ” Sean cried in astonishment.

“Unbelievable,” he said.

And, for the next forty-eight hours, the country wanted to talk about nothing else.

Shown ad nauseam—CNN simply never stopped replaying it—it managed to disturb even the most reluctant of citizens. And just like that the debate turned on its head.

But the best was yet to come.

He was sitting behind his desk on Thursday morning watching it live on _The View,_ when Whoopi Goldberg announced that well, _she_ for one was excited to be attending Sean Jackson’s fundraiser for his children’s charity foundation. The audience applauded.

He picked up the receiver when Sean’s call came through.

“I have a _children’s charity foundation?_ ”

“Oh, right,” he said. “The dinner is on Saturday evening. Do you have something to wear?”

He did paperwork while Sean yelled at him. 

~*~

Unlike at the GLAAD awards, Sean was very low key.

The beautiful gala dinner was, as the agent and the former studio head had promised him, a star-studded event. 

It was carried live on CNN and boasted not merely Hollywood celebrities, for eye candy and public titillation, but philanthropists and high level politicians from both sides of the aisle. All were eager to get before reporters on the red carpet for the free press.

Sean, seated next to him at their table, looked absolutely stunning, his hair freshly cut and his bread trimmed. But he also looked very nervous, though he was doing a good job of hiding it. On Thursday, after Sean had finished yelling at him over the phone, Sean had soberly asked him what the hell he was supposed to say at a fundraiser for a charity he hadn’t even known existed.

So he had left the office early and had gone home that evening to talk to him. They had talked for a while, but mainly he had merely helped Sean see that it was all in him, waiting to be expressed anyway.

And then it was time for Sean’s speech. Sean stood up, taking a breath, and glancing at him. 

He made sure he was seated looking comfortable and casual, and nodded at him.

Sean went up to the podium, unfolded his sheet of paper, and of course, nailed it.

Nothing Sean said was anything new, to anyone who even slightly knew him. It was what Sean was as a person, and it was what he had told Mark Hawthorne weeks ago at their NFL players association party. That if there was a way to help at-risk LGBT kids, his new status as a “first” in the sports world was to serve as that platform.

And Hawthorne, who hadn’t needed to be persuaded to come to the dinner, interviewed later in the evening, was able to speak truthfully to the matter. 

Hawthorne told the press what Sean had told him after his coming out and expressed how honored he was to be here, when it all came to fruition, because in the end, it really was all about giving kids a chance.

And at five thousand dollars a plate, that seemed to do it.

~*~

That was Saturday night. 

On Sunday, first thing in the morning on Face the Nation, Rob Fuentes, the NFL spokesman, finally told Bob Schieffer how tired people were of the attitudes “like the ones the country has seen over the past couple of weeks. Ultimately, the fans really do not want political debates sullying their enjoyment of the sport, nor of their heroes of the sport. And I believe we can leave it at that.” 

A sentiment which Bob Schieffer in his commentary after the show, strongly echoed.

And just like that, as if Fuentes’ words was the first time anyone had said anything like it, everyone was saying how they couldn’t agree more.

~*~

They laid in bed and watched the whole thing.

Sean was breathing softly, deeply against his ear. 

“How did you do it?” Sean finally asked, astonishment softening his voice.

He laughed. “You live in L.A. and you’ve never heard of the Gay Mafia?”

One of their phones began to chirp. Sean unfolded his arm from behind his head and reached for the nightstand. He waited as Sean checked the caller ID and put the phone to his ear.

“G’morning, Paula.”

Sean’s voice was even, placid, a deep rumbling beneath his ear. Just like in the old days. 

He could hear Paula’s loud voice on the other end. “Sean! The GM just called! They’re ready to negotiate!”

Sean let out a quiet sigh, and his body simply relaxed. He felt the way Sean’s arm came up around him, tightening around his shoulders, and he knew, instinctually, that they had somehow made it to the finish line on this thing called a commitment.

~*~

_Epilogue_

Ruben Flint, the most feared and vitriolic sportswriter in the business, published a column about him the following Friday morning entitled _“The Market for Sean Jackson.”_ Following the FRC controversy subsiding all that was left rattling in the sports world was the question of his value to a team. The article was a slam dunk in his defense.

That afternoon, Paula used it and stuck it to the Chargers team owners.

The past three weeks and how he had handled the entire mess had shown an “exemplary and mature” character in his person, she informed them, and went on to point out the instances in the past few months alone in which players across the league had gotten into criminal trouble or “just plain acted stupid in the media, let’s just be honest.” She did her fake-easygoing shrug. “And if we’re _gonna_ be honest, then let’s be honest.” 

She proceeded to flat-out tell them that the reason the team had had all those problems last season wasn’t because of him, but because the team’s defense sucked. “So let’s be honest. You need him more than he needs you.”

That caused a lot of shuffling and clearing of throats. He watched in shrouded amusement.

But she wasn’t done yet. “And let’s not take him being a pushover for his team, a team which he’s been loyal to for six years, three of them _record seasons,_ as a sign of negotiating points against him.” She stuck up a finger. “Because I know that I can get him to change his mind if I pick up this phone, and get his significant other on the line, and explain to him what I just explained to you.”

The team owners were beside themselves. 

Hating all the implications of what Paula had said, all of which were true including the part, he admitted to himself, about Holden, they put up one hell of a fight.

The next morning, however, he was in his lawyers’ offices signing a ninety million dollar, four-year contract.

The whole thing was nothing if not surreal. 

Not only did he have his old job back with additional perks, he was also looking at a two million dollar a year pay increase. Well, the thought, smiling to himself as he signed the paperwork, he did have a foundation to run. He would never get over how amazing Paula truly was. 

He finished up, then headed down to the parking garage for his car, ecstatic. It was as he was beeping to unlock his car that he saw the black Blazer with the bodyguards. Realizing he had never thanked Paula for them, he closed his car door and went over. 

The men opened the car doors and climbed out as he approached, each standing at a corner of the vehicle. He came to a stop before the closest one and raised a friendly hand.

“Hi guys,” he muttered, scratching his beard with his keys.“Can I ask you a question?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Who do you work for?”

“You, sir.”

He smiled, acquiesed that it was a dumb question. “Right. No, I meant, who hired you.”

“Mr. Wilson, sir.”

He heard the words. But he needed a moment. He glanced at the other men around the Blazer, as if that would somehow make it compute.

“What’d you—” He looked at the closet one. “When? You guys have been following me since—”

“February fifteenth, sir.”

He stared blankly, then had to lower his head, realizing that he was probably going to start smiling and never stop. He thanked them with a lifted hand and went back to his car. He climbed in and drove straight to Harry Winston on Rodeo.

This time he didn’t get into a car accident to get any form of clarity. 

He didn’t have to.

~*~

That evening his street was empty of protesters, paparazzi, and media vans. At last.

Though Holden’s Lexus was in the driveway, he entered his house and automatically checked for Holden’s jacket by the door. Heaped, as ever, on the floor, it lay innocuously in its corner by the door.

He closed the door behind him and listened for Holden, loving that for the first time in a long time, there were no TVs, radios or phones ringing in his house. Nothing but bliss and silence.

He had been roped into returning to Paula’s offices to have champagne with her and Kara and the rest of the agency, but it had turned into an impromptu party from which he had had to maneuver an eventual escape.

Because all he could think about was coming home to his sweetheart.

And as if on cue Holden came out of the bedroom, leaning against the door jamb, and gave him a look and a smile that he wouldn’t soon forget.

~*~

Nothing short of starvation finally brought them out of the bedroom the next day.

The announcement about his contract had triggered some of the biggest backpedaling he had seen in sports press in a long while, where all of a sudden everyone was talking about how it made sense that the Chargers would take him back.

“They’d be nuts not to,” Chad Billings on ESPN had said the previous afternoon when Kara had released the announcement, and had kept on repeating at every chance he got. “The guy’s got one of the best records in the league.” And good ol’ Chad had been one of his snidest critics not so much as a week ago.

Allison had left him voicemail: “Sean, seriously, I love watching those ESPN End Zone assholes make even bigger assholes of themselves now. Fucking love it. Who knew anyone could eat this much crow? Call me.” He chuckled when he thought about it, and was definitely savoring the moment to call her back.

They were calling it the comeback story of a decade. And he was feeling all right.

He grabbed a power bar and went into the living room. It was just past one in the afternoon. But when he saw the stack of mail and paperwork he had abandoned over two weeks ago still sitting there on his coffee table, he nearly passed out. _Christ._ He sat down and pulled his laptop to him. It was still open on the thank-you email he had been composing to Mark Hawthorne—over three weeks ago.

He saved and closed the compose window…to find that he had two hundred and eighty-three new emails in his inbox.

He sighed. Maybe he could do a mass mailing reply saying that he was off on his honeymoon for the next couple of months and to refer all communiqués to Kara. Speaking of which… He clicked the folder for Kara’s press releases and read with a smile, the newest and greatest release— the Chargers official announcement of his contract renewal. _Everything_ was good again.

“Sean.”

It was Holden calling to him from the kitchen. 

“Yeah.”

“There’s a diamond ring sitting inside this cereal box.”

He stopped and looked over his shoulder. Holden was bent over the counter by the fridge, peering down at something. He got up and went over.

“Let’s see.”

He leaned his hip against the counter and looked down at where a small black felt bag lay next to his niece’s smiley face bowl. 

The ring itself was sitting in the palm of Holden’s hand. Holden straightened with it. 

“It looks pretty good for a toy surprise,” Holden said, turning to look at the cereal box. “Though, I don’t think I’ve ever seen one inside one of these…”

He reached forward and rotated the ring once in Holden’s palm before picking it up.

“That is one hunk of cubic zirconium,” Holden observed.

The ring was a wide, structured white gold, with a diamond the size of a keyboard tile buried inside its middle.

It was, of course, real. 

He looked at it a moment longer, before slowly extending it back to Holden. 

Holden looked down at the ring, then back up at him, waiting for him to solve the mystery.

Not surprisingly, the words came very easily to him. 

“Holden, will you marry me.”

Holden was still staring at him with a look of curiousity on his face.

Then incomprehension passed, and a mild form of confusion set in. Both flitted briefly across Holden's face, before, at last, comprehension dawned.

“Oh my God!” Holden yelled. 

Yelled. Holden actually yelled. 

Holden looked stricken, as if he had just heard the most outrageous thing imaginable in a room full of his relatives. He pushed backwards. 

“Sean, stop it, get away from me!”

He just stood there, astonished. 

He said, slowly, “I can categorically say that that… wasn’t the reaction I was looking for.”

“No!” Holden shouted once more, and he had to admit he had no idea what Holden was saying no to. He pressed his forehead into the cupboard containing his mugs and waited.

“No, Sean, no!”

Holden was heading fast into the bedroom. A moment later he emerged wearing sweats, having replaced his pajama bottoms, and hiking boots with the laces undone and the front flaps hanging over. Holden looked around and grabbed his keys from a tray by the dining table. 

Then, with eyes as wide as he had ever seen them, Holden stood by his front door and raised both his hands at him, resolutely shaking his head.

He raised a hand and nodded, to indicate that he understood and that he wasn’t going to interfere with his exit, and Holden blew out of his house, slamming the door behind him.

He listened in the ensuing silence to the sound of Holden’s Lexus starting up. He heard the muted squelch of tires turning on the concrete driveway, then listened to the author of his never-ending love story drive away.

He sighed. There was never a dull moment.

He went into the bedroom and picked up his cell phone. Maybe he would go see a movie.

Yeah, that sounded like a nice, relaxing afternoon.

He tapped the icon for movie times and brought up the listings.

~*~

   
The movie was a comforting adult drama. The kind he loved best. There was also a love story, but it wasn’t handled very well. Still, he’d enjoyed it.

He went into the lobby when the movie had finished, reaching into his jeans pocket to check his phone messages. 

Before he could, however, he was accosted by a group of young guys who’d recognized him. They had him autograph their T-shirts and baseball hats. 

He did so, talking some football with them. They said they thought he deserved every penny of his new contract, and that the fact that he was gay was “cool with them.”

“Thanks, guys,” he said as he shook their hands, meaning it. They waved as they wandered away.

He looked back down at his phone, but not before noticing that he was getting checked out by a foursome of attractive women by the concession stands.

So he was feeling pretty good about himself, kind of on top of the world actually, when a text from Holden popped up.

 _I’m at your house,_ the message said. _I’ll wait._

He closed it and another one popped up. 

_And the answer is yes._

He closed his eyes. It was a slow satiation, one that had waited hours, days, weeks, agonizing _months,_ to push its way up inside him. It did so now, and he had never felt more complete, more whole.

He raised his eyes heavenward to a God he had never thought of as existing, and mouthed a very sincere “Thank you.”

~*~

Holden was sitting at one of the kitchen stools, his feet up on a rung, staring out at the water.

A lamp had been turned on by the sofa against the wall but the rest of the living room sat in dimness. But as he entered the kitchen there was still enough dusk light to see the penitent look on Holden’s face.

He supposed an emotion he hadn’t realized he was feeling must have been showing on his face as well, because Holden quickly stood up with his brows knitting as he got close and wrapped his arms around his head. 

He buried his face in Holden’s shoulder and held him so tight he had to be leaving fingernail marks on his back.

“I’m sorry,” Holden whispered, pressing his lips to his temple. “For being such a dolt, all these years. And for making you worried tonight. Please forgive me.”

He kept his face pressed into the crook of Holden’s shoulder, his arms wrapped around his waist, and couldn’t move. Holden stroked his hair, kissed the side of his face.

His body melted, leaving him nothing but a warm, completed soul. He let out a breath, unable to get the words out, and gratefully turned when Holden sought his mouth.

For a long time he thought of nothing but how indescribable it felt to be in love.

It was Saturday, May 30th, 2010.

~*~

_Part 3: Not For the Fact_


End file.
